Better Luck Next Time
by irismay42
Summary: What if things had been different? Are the Winchesters truly doomed no matter which life they choose to live? Can Dean save Sam from himself when he tries to find the answer...? A little like the Butterfly Effect, but with a better ending so says I...!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Not mine in no way, shape or form... Would be very happy and very rich...**

**This was my second fan fiction attempt, and I'm told it's a bit confusing to start with. Don't worry, all will become clear...**

**I've never split it into chapters before, so sorry if they're a bit uneven... Got to keep those cliffhangers in there...**

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Sam Winchester could smell burning.

It was an acrid smell – not wood, not electrical – something else.

He opened his eyes on an unfamiliar ceiling, a crackling, popping sound reaching his ears as if very far away.

He looked around him; a child's bedroom. Not just a child's bedroom: a little boy's bedroom. Crayons fought for floor space with toy cars and green plastic army men, and drawings of space rockets and fire engines jostled with Star Wars posters for supremacy on the walls.

Sam was sure he'd been here before. But the room had been different somehow. As if it had belonged to a different little boy, maybe.

Sam sat up. He could hear a man's voice. Yelling. Distraught. Terrified.

The smell of smoke was becoming stronger, almost overpowering him, and he could see an ominous orange-yellow light flickering under the bedroom door.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, but they weren't long enough to reach the floor. He jumped down, his feet touching carpet that was warmer than it should have been, too hot on his bare feet.

He walked slowly towards the door, afraid of what he would find on the other side, having to push forward as if struggling through water. He reached for the door handle, which was hot to the touch.

His hand looked so small.

Opening the door, he saw black smoke filling up the hallway outside, smelt that acrid smell once more and almost retched.

It was the smell of burning flesh.

Turning to his left, he could see the hallway lit unnaturally orange and black, and again, it seemed strangely familiar. There were different pictures on the walls from the last time he was here; a dark haired man and a pretty blonde woman; a little boy with a smiling baby on his knee.

Jenny's pictures had gone.

Yes! Sam remembered now, remembered when he'd been here. This was Jenny's house.

No wait. This was _his_ house.

As Sam stared at the pictures on the walls, he became aware of movement to his left. A tall man came rushing out of the room down the hall, arms full of what Sam thought were blankets.

Sam looked up at him, and he seemed impossibly tall. He was running towards him, fire behind him, snaking across the ceiling from the room he'd just left. The man looked anguished. Horrified.

"Dad?"

The man bent down, holding out the blankets in trembling arms. "Take your brother outside as fast as you can!" he ordered, thrusting his burden into Sam's arms. The blankets felt warm, and when Sam looked down, he realised he was holding a screaming baby.

He looked back up at his father, rooted to the spot, fear and confusion numbing his legs and his brain.

"Now Dean, go!" the man yelled, already turning to run back into Sarry's room. No. Not Sarry's room. The nursery. _Sam_'s room.

Sam looked down at the baby. He'd stopped crying and his eyes had closed. He seemed very pale in the orange light.

Turning, he ran as fast as he could, down the landing, down the stairs, out onto the front lawn.

He turned to look back at the house, flames visible through the nursery window. He looked back down at the baby in his arms, wanting to comfort him, to tell him everything would be OK.

But the baby wasn't moving and his lips were blue.

"Dad – "

His father was there then, lifting him and the baby into his strong arms. "I gotcha," he said, carrying them away just as the window blew out overhead and glass rained down over the spot where Sam had just been standing.

Dad carried him over to the car, a big black Chevy with a shiny hood, where he put him down before carefully taking the baby from his arms. The car felt cold to Sam as he sat there on the hood, looking down at the silent baby.

"He's not breathing," he heard himself say in a child's terrified voice. "Daddy, he's not breathing!"

Dad didn't look at him, but bent low over the baby.

Sam wasn't sure what to do.

Then he heard people yelling, neighbours coming out of their houses in their nightclothes, and finally he heard sirens.

Like some slowed down, drawn-out nightmare, he watched his father run towards the approaching ambulance, the baby cradled in his arms.

He seemed to be gone a long time.

A Police lady came and sat with him, put her arm around his shoulders. She spoke to him in soothing tones, but the only words Sam heard her say were, "Hi honey. My name's Bethany. What's yours?" He wasn't sure whether he answered her.

Then, after what seemed an eternity, his father emerged from the back of the ambulance, tears making stark white streaks down his smoke-blackened face.

For a moment, he just stood in front of Sam, looking at him, all light gone from his dark brown eyes. Finally, he reached out and pulled him into his arms, holding him so tightly he could barely breathe, sobbing silently onto his shoulder.

"Daddy?" he heard himself say. "Where's Mommy? Where's – "

"Dean," his father whispered in his ear, not loosening his hold on him. "It's OK. It's going to be OK. Mommy's had to go away, that's all. Some place better. Some place safer." He pulled back slightly, looking deep into Sam's eyes before adding, "And Sammy's gone with her."

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Sam sat up with a start, chest heaving as he tried to breathe, coughing as if his lungs were full of smoke and blinking hard as the room around him slowly swam into focus.

Motel room.

A tiny streak of light across the ceiling told him morning had only just begun to arrive, and a quick glance at the clock on the nightstand confirmed it was 5:57.

Although the clock on the cover of Dean's cell phone said it was 6:01.

Dean's cell phone.

"Dean!"

Sam yelled his brother's name so loud, Dean almost fell out of bed.

"What – Sam – what's – " his hand groped unconsciously under his pillow for the knife he always kept there.

Looking over at Sam sitting bolt upright in bed with sweat glistening on his brow and a spaced-out look on his face, Dean realised quickly that they weren't in any immediate danger, and dropped his head back onto his pillow.

Another freakin' nightmare.

"Dean, wake up!" Sam urged, jumping out of his bed and bounding over to Dean's.

Dean felt his brother tugging on his t-shirt, like he used to when they were kids and he'd had a bad dream and wanted his big brother's reassurance that there wasn't _really_ a six-eyed monster under his bed. Of course, offering such reassurance had been Dean's job back then. Which was why Sam had always gone to Dean rather than their father whenever he'd had a bad dream; if he'd gone to Dad, the old man would have come back with a flashlight and a twelve gauge.

"Dean – wake – up!" Sam insisted again, half pulling his brother out of bed.

"Alright already, where's the fire?" Dean exclaimed, flipping onto his back and pushing himself upright. He glanced at the clock through bleary eyes, before looking up at Sam in the early morning darkness.

Sam bent down and turned on the bedside lamp, causing Dean to flinch like an actor in a bad 1950s vampire movie.

"That's a bad choice of words," Sam snapped, before realising that Dean hadn't seen what he had just seen… Well, technically, he supposed he had. Some of it anyway. Everything up to the part where –

"I died!" Sam burst out then, grabbing Dean by the shoulders and shaking him a little, just to get his attention.

A puzzled look fought with fatigue for control of Dean's face. "Sam," he said in a 'don't be so stupid at this time of morning' tone of voice. "You're standing right here in front of me, so I'm pretty sure you're not dead," he pointed out with a barely-suppressed yawn.

"No!" Sam said, kneeling down on the bed next to him. "In my dream. I watched me die!"

Dean squinted at him out of the corner of his eye.

Sam gesticulated wildly with his arms before attempting an explanation. "Well," he began, a puzzled look now etched onto his features. "I say 'I' watched me die. But actually 'I' wasn't 'I', I wasn't me. I was _you_ and I watched me die!" He looked at Dean as if everything should make sense now.

Dean just looked back at him vacantly. Then, "OK, I need some coffee."

"No!" Sam grabbed Dean's shoulders again, holding him fast, forcing him to pay attention. "No. My dream. I was _you_, Dean! Oh my god. Dean, I was you. I – I was seeing out of your eyes…"

"Whatever you saw me do with Mrs Carraway in the back of her husband's pick-up truck was a total misunderstanding," Dean said quickly. "What's a fifteen-year-old kid to do – "

Sam cut him off, just as quickly. "No! I was in our house – I was in your room. The night of the fire, the night – " Sam stopped abruptly, suddenly acutely aware of the expression on his big brother's face. "The night Mom died…" he trailed off.

All thoughts of fatigue forgotten, Dean's eyes had become sharply focussed and he swallowed hard. "You were – " he choked off the rest of the sentence.

"I was _you_," Sam repeated, his voice softening.

Dean just looked at him. It took him a second to collect himself enough to ask the next question. "And what did you see?"

Sam didn't answer right away, choosing his words carefully. "The fire. Dad. I – you – carried me – Sam – outside."

Dean nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said, not meeting his younger brother's gaze. "I told you that part."

"No," Sam cut him off again, shaking his head. "No, Dean. No." He shook his brother again slightly, just to make him look at him. Dean was looking, but his eyes looked as if his head was someplace else. "Dean," Sam said, taking a deep breath. "I _died_. In my dream. I died. After the fire – in – in the ambulance."

Dean continued to stare at him.

"Dean, Dad said I'd had to go with Mom."

Dean frowned. "I don't remember an ambulance," he muttered, thinking. "But there must have been. For – for Mom – what was left…" He couldn't finish the sentence and looked away. "I don't remember," was all he added.

But he did remember. And he didn't want to.

Sam nodded. "I know," he said, a little too enthusiastically. "I know. But in my dream – " It was Sam's turn to trail off. "Dean. What do you think it means?"

Dean looked at him for a second. "It means you had a bad dream," he said, swinging his legs out of bed and standing. He scratched his head and shrugged as if it didn't bother him. "I'm going to take a shower."

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"So. Where are we going again?" Sam asked awkwardly, confused by the fuzziness in his head. That nightmare – it had really fried some synapses. He couldn't stop re-running it, like some horrific old family movie, hearing his father telling him – telling Dean – that his baby brother was dead. The anguish in his voice was almost unbearable, and although Sam knew perfectly well that he _hadn't_ died on that terrible November night, he couldn't help but wonder what _had_ happened, what his father _had_ told Dean. He glanced sideways at his older brother as he expertly guided Dad's old Chevy Impala off the motel forecourt.

Although Dean professed not to remember much about the night their Mom was taken from them, Sam was pretty sure he remembered a lot more than he let on. How does a father tell his four-year-old son that he's never going to see his Mommy again? How do you explain something like that to a child? And how would you process that information if you _were_ that child?

Dean glanced sidelong at his kid brother with an exasperated sigh. "Sam, I thought it was _me_ who had the short attention span?"

Sam shrugged noncommittally, still considering his brother wistfully.

Dean shifted uncomfortably under such close scrutiny. "What?" he demanded, finally. "I got something in my teeth or somethin'?"

Sam shook his head, eyes still on his brother. "No," he said, quietly. "I was just thinking."

Dean shifted again. "Well, I hope you're thinking about what you're gonna say at this interview."

Sam started, as if yanked out of some deep reverie. "Interview?" he echoed. "What – what interview?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Jeez," he burst out, exasperated. "Some lawyer you're going to make. I ever get arrested for murder or somethin', remind me not to call you."

Sam just stared at him. Then, "_What_ are you talking about?"

Dean pulled up at a red light, giving him the chance to look his kid brother over. There was a tiny twinge of concern in his eyes. "Boy," he said softly. "That nightmare really did a number on you, didn't it?"

Sam shrugged. "Yeah. Maybe."

Dean nodded, before explaining, "Your interview at Stanford Law School. Tomorrow. Remember?"

Sam frowned. "No – " he said, slowly. "I – I missed that interview. It was the day – " he trailed off, unable to voice the words 'the day Jessica died'.

It was Dean's turn to frown, and he almost missed the light changing to green, so concerned was he for his brother's state of mind. "No way," he burst out. "It's tomorrow. Trust me. Tattooed on my brain." He tapped at his temple before chuckling. "Besides, Jess would have my ass if you missed it!"

Sam froze. _What _had Dean just said? He'd misheard him. That was all…

For a second, Sam was too stunned to say a word. Then, very very slowly, he repeated what he thought Dean had just said. "Jess?"

Dean glanced quickly at his brother as he negotiated a bend. "What's _with_ you today?" he asked. "You're acting like I'm a freakin' alien, Sam!"

Sam just stared at him. The dream. The dream where he'd died. Now Jess was…

"You spoke to her?"

Dean frowned. "Jess?" he clarified. "Sure I did. She only called, like, twenty times yesterday to remind me to get you back on time…"

"Dean," Sam was speaking very slowly and deliberately. "This is really important."

Dean looked at him, confusion in his eyes.

Sam took a deep breath. "Where have we just been?" he asked, expression completely neutral.

Dean's frown deepened. "OK, that's it." He pulled in to the side of the road, parking the Impala lopsidedly half on, half off the black top. Turning to face his brother, he demanded, "What is it?"

Sam was still staring at him as if he was speaking in tongues or something.

"Sammy?"

"Dean," Sam replied. "We've just been to Jericho, right? The Woman in White – ?"

Dean grimaced. "What the hell…? Sam, we just came back from Harvard. You had another interview there, remember? Jess asked me to drive you 'cause she thought you'd get all up tight and wind up in a ditch somewhere – "

"Jess asked you?" Sam faltered.

"Ye-ah," Dean said slowly. "You were there when she – "

"But you only ever met her the one time – "

Dean shook his head. "What are you talking about? I've known Jess – " he thought back. "Well, almost as long as you have!"

Sam pressed his hand against his forehead. "I'm dreaming," he muttered, desperately. "I'm still dreaming."

"Sam?" Dean looked really concerned now. Nightmares were one thing, but this… He put a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder. "Sam, tell me what's wrong."

Sam was shaking his head over and over, like he used to when he was really small and something had scared him. When he looked up at Dean, there were tears on his cheeks.

"Sam – ?"

"When I woke up this morning," Sam managed eventually. "After the dream I had where I died?" He met his brother's gaze cautiously. "I swear to God, Jessica was dead."

Dean didn't move for a second, sure he'd misunderstood what his brother had just said. "She – what?" he asked, uncertainly.

Sam was shaking all over. "Dean, Jess _died_. Seven months ago. The same way Mom died. We'd been to Jericho looking for Dad – "

That got Dean's attention. "Dad?" he echoed.

Sam nodded, rolling right over Dean's odd reaction. "And when I got home, Jess was – was on the ceiling. Burning. Like Mom. I – I never made the Stanford interview, Dean. I quit college to come with you. I – I – " he trailed off, shaking his head in disbelief, unable to form the words to express the thoughts swarming in his head.

Dean was silent again, before tentatively offering, "Maybe – maybe all that was just – just another nightmare."

"A nightmare?" Sam echoed. Oh my god. He felt like his world was collapsing around him. Everything he thought he knew – his life for the last seven months – everything that had happened to him. Jess. Dad. None of that was real? How could none of it be real?

He felt like someone had pulled a tablecloth out from underneath his entire world, and everything was lying in pieces on the floor. How could he have believed with such certainty that his memories were true? How could he believe they were false? He glanced wildly around the car, panic beginning to squeeze at his chest, claw at his brain. His eyes settled on his big brother, whose face was a mask of concern. Was Dean real? Was he sitting here with him, driving him to a big interview? Driving him home to Jess? What if _this_ was the nightmare?

But a nightmare where Jessica was still alive.

How could that be the nightmare?

Suddenly, he knew what he had to do.

All doubt, all fear left him as he grabbed his cell phone and began scrolling feverishly through the phone book. Whichever Truth was real, he knew the number would be there. Even in the nightmare where Jess had died, he could never have deleted her number.

Pushing the button with trembling fingers, Sam lifted the cell to his ear. It rang twice before connecting.

"Hey, handsome!" he heard a voice say. "Hope that brother of yours has almost got you home!"

Sam nearly dropped the phone. "Jess?"

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Dean wasn't entirely sure what was wrong with his kid brother. And from the quick conversation he'd had with Jessica after she'd spoken to Sam, he didn't think she was either.

Jess was scared, and with good reason. It wasn't every day your boyfriend called and told you to get out of the house because something was coming to kill you.

All things considered, she'd taken it fairly well.

Dean had watched uneasily as Sam jumped out of the car, not entirely sure where he was going, the cell phone he'd thrown at him still in his hands.

"She wants to talk to you," was all Sam had said.

Dean had taken the phone, not sure what the hell to say to Jessica.

"Dean?"

"Yeah."

"What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know."

"He sounds crazy. Where have you guys been? What did you do to him?"

"I didn't do anything! He had a bad dream – "

"He's _always_ having bad dreams!"

"Jess," Dean had stopped her short. "For now," he said, sighing. "Just do what Sam wants. Go stay with your Mom for a couple of days."

Jessica didn't answer right away, and Dean used the time to follow Sam's progress through the rear view mirror. He was popping the trunk. What was he looking for back there?

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You'll bring him back safe, right?"

Dean hadn't taken his eyes off the mirror. "Yeah. I won't let anything bad happen to him. You know that."

Again Jessica didn't answer.

Dean heard a thud behind him, almost as if Sam was throwing stuff around in the trunk. "Listen, Jess," he said. "I gotta go. It's gonna be OK. Just go to your Mom's, OK?"

Another pause. "OK. Tell him I love him."

Dean nodded, even though he knew Jess had no way to see that. "Yeah. I will." He hung up, tossing the cell onto the seat next to him as he opened the driver's door and walked around the back of the car to where Sam was standing staring into the trunk.

"Sam – ?" he began, carefully. His brother had lifted the fake bottom of the trunk and was just staring at the cavity underneath, ashen-faced.

"There – there's nothing in here," he stammered, at last looking up at his brother.

Dean peered into the trunk and shrugged. "There's a spare tyre," he pointed out. "Like you'd expect to find in a spare tyre cavity…"

Sam moved so fast, Dean wasn't nearly ready for him, his brother suddenly grabbing him by the shoulders and shoving him hard against the car. There was something wild in his eyes, and Dean wasn't sure whether it was desperation or madness.

"Sam – "

"Where are the weapons?" Sam demanded, still holding Dean pinned against the car. "I need to protect her. I need to kill the thing! Where are the weapons?"

Dean looked from Sam to the empty trunk and back again, old memories of what Dad used to keep hidden back there suddenly resurfacing. "W – weapons?" he stammered, more than a little thrown by his brother's aggressive behaviour. "You – you mean _Dad_'s weapons?"

Sam nodded, frantically. "Of course I mean Dad's weapons!" he burst out. "Where are they? I need them! To protect her, to save her!"

Dean's frown deepened. "Sammy," he said, very very slowly, carefully placing what he hoped was a soothing hand on his brother's shoulder. "We haven't kept that kind of stuff in there since we stopped hunting – "

"Stopped – ?"

"After Dad died."

Sam froze, eyes locking with his brother's. "Dad – Dad's dead?" he could barely get the words out. Jess was alive. But Dad was dead.

Now Dean was _really_ worried. "Sam – "

"When? How? How did he – "

"You know how – "

"Tell me!" Sam shook Dean hard, and for a split second the older brother thought the kid was going to hit him.

Play along, Dean thought to himself, trying to stay calm. Whatever's wrong, we can straighten it out…

"Sam," he said, carefully and deliberately. "It's been just you and me since you were thirteen, buddy."

Sam didn't seem to react to that. Then, "How did he die?"

Dean swallowed hard. "The thing that got Mom," he said, quietly. "He thought he had a line on it. But it got him first."

Sam just stared at him. "And we stopped hunting after that?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Just like you wanted."

Sam loosened his grip on his brother's shoulders and turned away.

Dean hesitated, before making a move towards him. "Sam – " he put a hand on Sam's arm, and his brother half turned back towards him. "We gotta get you back home, kiddo," he said gently. "I worked my ass off putting you through school, and I'm not going to let you screw that up 'cause of some stupid nightmare."

Sam met his gaze. "You? Work?" he echoed, his voice distant and unbelieving.

Dean looked hurt, but was glad of the distraction. "Hey, old man Jacobs said he might let me take over the autoshop in a couple of years, when he retires. I need you to be a hotshot lawyer making mega-bucks by then or no way will I be able to afford it!"

Sam smiled, weakly, and Dean started to relax a little. "I need to get back to Jess," was all the younger brother said.

Dean nodded. "Yeah."

"But first," Sam added. "I need your knife."

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Dean kept glancing sideways at Sam all the way back to California; something about the way the kid was gripping the knife made him uncomfortable.

Three times Sam had made him explain why he still kept it, still slept with it under his pillow. "Old habits die hard," he'd said, with a grin that didn't quite make it to his eyes. Just because they didn't hunt any more didn't mean nothing was hunting _them_.

Sam had listened to Dean's explanations with a head so full of white noise he could barely hear him. From what he had heard, their life after Dad died, while not a bed of roses, had been almost what Sam had always hoped for during those dark days of childhood when their Dad had dragged them from motel room to motel room, school to school, as he hunted god knows what and trained them to do the same. Dean had quit school, got a job, and given Sam the chance of the 'normal' life he'd always dreamed of. They'd stayed in one place, Sam had gone to one school, he'd made friends, got an education, gone to college and met Jessica.

No monsters, no ghosts, no hunting.

With a sudden twinge of extreme guilt, Sam realised he was almost glad his Dad had died.

Dean was still looking at him. He was probably the most scared Sam had ever seen him. And with all the stuff he'd seen Dean deal with, he knew that was pretty damn scared.

But had he actually seen Dean do the things, face the things, kill the things he remembered? Could he trust those memories? The last seven months of his life had seemed so real, he couldn't simply dismiss them as some incredibly intricate, vividly detailed nightmare. There was more to it than that. There had to be.

Dean's cell phone rang loudly, startling them both. Still eyeing Sam cautiously, as if he was afraid he might slit his throat if he turned away, Dean flipped open the cell, speaking in a measured tone of voice, as if everything was normal.

"Hey," he said. Sam heard a female voice on the other end, but somehow knew it wasn't Jessica. "Yeah," Dean continued. "We should be back soon." His eyes slid sideways to his brother. "Yeah, Sam's OK. He – he had a bad dream last night. Messed him up a little. Yeah. That was his idea. Jess called you?"

Sam glanced over at him at the mention of Jessica.

Dean deliberately avoided his gaze, discomfort obvious in his body language. "Yeah. Yeah, it's OK. We'll straighten it all out when we get back. You – you'll be there, right?" There was a weird look on Dean's face, like the one Sam remembered from when he'd first told him and Dad he was leaving for Stanford. Except, he corrected himself, that had never happened. Dad was long gone by then, and Dean had moved with him when he went to college.

He shook his head, uncertain which set of memories to believe.

"OK," Dean was saying, a look of relief on his face. "I'll see you when we get back." Then he added, "Don't worry."

Clicking shut the phone, Dean turned to Sam. "Bethany," he explained, indicating the phone. "Jess called her. "We – " he paused, awkwardly. "We kind of had a fight before you and I set out on this little road trip," he explained, glancing away. "She said we were over and she was leaving."

Sam frowned. Bethany. The name seemed familiar, but he just couldn't picture her. "But you guys are OK now?" he asked, somehow knowing that Bethany was Dean's girlfriend.

Dean shrugged. "As OK as we ever are," he said, smiling awkwardly. Then, "She's worried about you."

Sam looked surprised. "I'm OK," he said, matter-of-factly. Noticing the look of concern that continued to haunt his brother's face, he added, "Really. I'm OK. But I need to get home. I need to make sure the house is clean, that Jess isn't in danger –"

"That it was all just a bad dream?" Dean finished for him.

Sam nodded. Exactly that. That the last ten years of his life were just a bad dream…

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It was dark by the time the Impala purred to a stop outside Sam's apartment. It was the same house, the same street he remembered, and as he led the way through the apartment door, he was relieved to realise his keys still fit the lock, and the paint was still peeling around the door handle.

He'd promised Jessica he'd paint it.

Glancing back at Dean, who followed uncertainly, reflexes dulled by ten years of normality, hunting days firmly in the dark, distant past, Sam gripped Dean's knife tightly, pushing open the door with a toe-curling squeak.

All was quiet inside.

Again glancing back to ensure Dean was following him, Sam stepped gingerly into the apartment, flipping on the light as he passed.

Nothing.

No ghosts. No six-eyed monsters. And, peeking into the bedroom, a furtive glance at the ceiling assured him, no Jessica.

He took a deep breath, turning to look back at his brother, who had his back to him, looking back into the living room, the way they'd just come.

"There's nothing here," Sam said, almost deflatedly, lowering the knife as his senses began to return to normal after their heightened state of agitation.

He heard Dean make a weird noise, almost like he was trying to say Sam's name.

"Dean?" Sam switched on the bedroom light. There was a dripping sound coming from somewhere, and when his eyes followed the direction of the noise, he noticed a few spots of something dark and viscous glistening at his brother's feet. "Dean?" he repeated, a bad, bad feeling starting to gnaw at his gut.

He reached out a hand towards his brother, who was turning to face him very slowly. The dripping sound was getting faster, and the spots at his feet were starting to turn into a pool.

Sam was almost afraid to look. It was blood. Deep down inside him, Sam knew it was blood, even before Dean had turned to reveal the ragged gash gaping from one side of his throat to the other. The look of surprise etched on his face seemed frozen there, as he again made that weird sound.

"S – S – "

Sam stared at him open-mouthed, some distant part of his brain still capable of rational thought telling him that Dean's vocal chords had probably been cut.

Then his older brother's knees started to buckle, blood dripping down and staining his grey t-shirt a vivid scarlet as he began to fall. Sam caught him, his own legs giving out in shock as he fell to the ground with his brother bleeding to death in his arms.

"No, no, no," Sam started to mutter. "No, not Dean. Not Jess for Dean. I can't – it's not – " There was water on his brother's face, mingling with the blood there, and Sam realised his own tears were splashing down onto Dean's clammy white skin, the heat draining from his body with the blood now pooling under Sam's knees.

He was looking up at something over Sam's shoulder, large eyes fixed and unblinking.

"Dean? Please!" Sam was sobbing. "Don't – you can't - !" but he stopped abruptly as he realised Dean was trying to tell him something. His expression had changed from stunned acceptance to abject terror. He tried to speak but couldn't, somehow managing to raise a weak arm in order to point at whatever it was he'd been looking at. The fear in his eyes deepened visibly, and Sam turned.

Then he knew only blackness.


	2. Chapter 2

**OK here's the next bit... Should have mentioned at the start that this is set before Shadow... For obvious reasons that become clear at the end...!**  
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"You're not reading that thing _again_ are you?" Jessica asked, indicating the thin manilla folder laying open across Sam's knees.

Sam started. He'd been sleeping. He'd been dreaming… about… someone. Dean. His brother? He shook his head to clear it, eyes trying to accustom themselves to the twilight surrounding him.

He'd been reading the file. Had dozed off. Had dreamed about his brother. Dying. Throat cut.

He shuddered. How could he trust that the young man in his dream had actually been his brother? All he'd seen were pictures. In the file. But the kid whose photograph was uppermost in the folder on his knee looked different somehow to the guy in the dream. More –

Haunted.

Sam looked up at Jess as she put a cup of coffee on the wicker table in front of him before sliding down into the seat by his side, pushing the porch swing with her foot so that the breeze blew gently through her hair.

She had beautiful hair, Sam thought to himself distractedly, catching one long, wavy lock between his fingers as he drew her close. As she kissed him, he thought, not for the first time, that he was the luckiest man alive. He had everything he'd ever hoped for – career, beautiful home, beautiful wife.

He sighed contentedly, looking out beyond the porch to where the kids played on the swing set in the garden. Jenna was laughing at Matthew, her little brother failing miserably to swing higher than she could.

Jessica followed his gaze, smiling, and Sam's attention was drawn back to her. She still looked as beautiful to him today as she had when they were twenty. The last ten years had gone by so fast…

Jess turned away from their children, a sad smile on her face. "So have you decided what you're going to do yet?" she asked.

Sam frowned, absently flicking at the paperclip holding the picture of the teenage boy to a few thin sheets of paper. A few thin sheets of paper that told the whole story of this poor kid's life. "Maybe," he said uncertainly, his previous decision crumbling as he tried to fathom the relevance of that dream he'd just had.

Jess shrugged. "You went to a whole lot of trouble to get hold of that file," she observed, tapping her fingers on the boy's photograph. "If you're not going to do anything about it."

Sam nodded. "I know," he said, looking up at her. "And honestly? I'd kind of decided to let it go – "

Jess raised her eyebrows in surprise.

" – Until I just had this weird dream."

"Dream?"

Sam shifted in his seat. "Yeah," he said, still trying to get his head around it. "I was with him someplace. He had his throat cut."

Jess recoiled. "Oh my god – your brother?"

Sam nodded. "I guess. Although I'm not entirely sure from this picture," he indicated the photograph on his lap. "He was older."

Jess frowned. "So you were reading your brother's file, you fell asleep, you dreamed about him?"

Sam shrugged. "I guess," he repeated. "It was so vivid. I remember – " he stopped suddenly.

"What?"

Sam shook his head. "Weird memories." He couldn't look at her then. "Of things that – that never happened."

"What sort of things?"

Sam looked deep into her eyes then and pulled her close to him. "It doesn't matter," he said, trying to get the image of Jess on the ceiling bursting into flames out of his head. Where did these horrific images keep coming from, he asked himself. Jess on fire; Dean with his throat cut. He shuddered. There had been nothing in his ordinary life that should cause such hellish scenarios to keep creeping into his brain. Sure, he'd always been afraid of fire, but he guessed that was down to the way his parents had died, even if he couldn't remember anything about that terrible November night.

He glanced down at the photograph once more. No wonder the kid had that haunted look about him. What those eyes had seen…

"I got his address this morning," Sam said quietly, stroking his wife's hair as she rested her head against his shoulder. "I'm going tomorrow."

Jess nodded, pleased. "Is he still in Kansas?" she asked.

"Wichita," Sam replied, nodding absently. Then, "I don't even know if he'll want to talk to me."

Jess looked at him. "Why wouldn't he want to talk to you?" she asked. "He's your brother."

"Yeah, but honestly? DNA's probably the only thing we've got in common…"

Jess brushed her fingers against his chin. "OK," she said. "So you ended up on opposite sides of the law. Considering what he's been through – the life he's had – it's hardly surprising."

"Jess," Sam burst out. "Jess, he _killed_ someone. In cold blood. My brother killed another human being. Slit his throat like he was an animal…" he trailed off. Slit his throat. Like Dean's had been in his dream.

Jess shrugged, her face suddenly hard. "You ask me," she said. "He did every kid in that place a favour." Her jaw tightened as her attention drifted to her own children. "Someone ever did to my children what that – that – man – " she chose the word carefully, " – did to those poor kids?" She raised her chin. "I'd do more than slit his throat."

Sam followed Jess's gaze to Jenna and Matthew, still trying to one up each other on the swing set, and he couldn't really argue. "Yeah," he said at length. "I know."

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Sam had never been to Wichita. Hell, he couldn't even remember Kansas, but he knew he'd lived here for the first three years of his life. He didn't remember Lawrence much. His Mom and Dad had only lived a couple of miles from the house where – where his _other_ Mom and Dad had lived. But he'd never had the urge to go back there.

Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to call them his 'real' Mom and Dad. Genetically, maybe, but he'd never known them. The names John and Mary Winchester were just that to him. Names.

He had a picture – his Mom said his brother had left if for him – of a happy couple, smiling for the camera in front of a big house, their little boy and baby son held in their arms.

Mom and Dad had given him the photograph when he was fourteen. Up until that point, he hadn't even known he was adopted, let alone that he had an older brother somewhere.

Of course, by then it was too late. Dean Winchester had already been in jail for two years by then.

Sam had left it. He had wanted to be a lawyer some day, and he was worried that if anyone got wind of the fact that his brother was serving time for Murder, certain doors might suddenly become closed, certain positions suddenly unavailable.

So he'd left it. And left it.

Even when he'd found out his brother had got parole, he'd left it. And that had been two years ago.

He didn't know whether it was hitting thirty or having kids of his own that had made him start to think about his brother again.

It had taken his former college roommate – who just happened to work for the District Attorney's Office – a while to get Sam Dean Winchester's file. And to this day, Sam wasn't sure it had been worth the wait. The more he read about his older brother, the less certain he was about seeking him out.

How would he react to Sam? When their parents had been killed, Sam had been adopted within weeks. People wanted babies. But four-year-olds with deep psychological trauma? They were a little harder to place…

So Dean had disappeared down that rabbit hole known as The System, and Sam had never seen him again.

Reading his file had been like reading a horror story. Sam had no idea what had happened on the night his parents died. All Mom and Dad could tell him was that there had been a fire, and that his older brother had gotten him out of the house while their father had gone back in to try and save their mother. Neither of them had come back out.

Dean had spent the next twelve years going from foster home to foster home, labelled a 'problem' kid, and moved on. His file said he ran away from almost every home he'd been placed in, one time getting as far as Arizona before he'd been picked up by a highway patrol. He'd been ten years old then.

Further labels were added; 'disruptive', 'disturbed'. He had 'behavioural difficulties', an 'inability to socialise' and an 'advanced distrust of authority'. In short, he was trouble, and he'd proved all the social workers right the night he slit his foster father's throat.

A murderer at sixteen.

The social workers had shaken their heads and moved on to the next case.

Sam wondered whether Dean would resent him. Blame him for the fact that while Sam had gotten new parents, a new home, a chance at a good life, Dean had got the short end of a very short stick that had wound up with his spending sixteen years in jail.

He was about to find out.

The door was probably supposed to be blue, Sam figured, as he tapped uncertainly on the dirty plywood. He could hear music blaring loudly from the inside of the apartment: Metallica, or AC/DC, or maybe Led Zeppelin. One of those rock bands that, to Sam at least, all blurred into one loud cacophony of sound.

A woman screamed somewhere, and Sam looked nervously down the dimly lit hallway before knocking harder.

The music stopped abruptly, and a few seconds later, the door cracked open just enough to reveal a rusty security chain stretched cautiously across the opening.

"Who's there?" a man's voice asked, as cautious and as rusty as the door chain.

Sam smiled nervously, pushing his glasses further up onto his nose. "Um. Hi," he managed, his voice high and strangled. He coughed, awkwardly, desperately trying to get a handle on some semblance of composure. "D – Dean Winchester?"

A pause. Then, "Who wants to know?"

Sam tried smiling again, not even sure the guy on the other side of the door could see him. "Um, my name's Sam Griffin," he managed. "I'm – I think – um – that is – I think – ". Spit it out, Sam, he ordered himself testily. He looked squarely at the crack between the door and the door jamb, hoping he was looking at least in the guy's general direction. "My birth name was Sam Winchester," he blurted at last. "I think I'm your brother."

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The apartment was, well, 'grimy' was the word that sprung initially to Sam's mind as he looked about him. While the place wasn't particularly untidy – the odd t-shirt thrown over a dining chair in the little kitchenette; a few fast food cartons on the rickety wooden table – there was a lingering air of grime hanging about the place that Sam figured would always be there, no matter how hard the apartment was scrubbed.

The walls were a dingy cream colour. No pictures. No photos. Completely bare. The furniture was sparse; a two-seater sofa and a mismatched armchair on which Sam currently sat. A small metal coffee table littered with CDs – the same music he'd heard when he arrived. A little stereo in the corner. Portable TV stuck on an upended packing case.

The kitchenette held a table and two wooden chairs, a dilapidated stove and a microwave oven that had obviously seen better days. When Dean opened the cupboards to get coffee, they looked pretty bare too.

Sam considered his brother thoughtfully. When he'd initially introduced himself, the door had closed immediately. And stayed closed for some considerable time.

Sam had been on the verge of leaving, convinced his brother didn't want to see him, when he'd finally heard the security chain rattle and the door had come open.

Dean Winchester had just stood there looking at him, an uncomfortable, uncertain look on his face.

Sam guessed that had Dean had any other life, he would probably have been a real ladykiller – handsome, if it hadn't been for that haunted look about his eyes. His pale face was thin and drawn, dark circles under his eyes suggesting he almost never slept. Although Sam knew he was still only thirty-four, he looked older, and when he walked his shoulders sagged, as if buckling under the weight of the world. He had trouble making eye contact, too, stealing quick glances at Sam before looking away just as quickly, eyes darting about the room, resting anywhere but on his brother.

"Come in," was all he'd said so far, besides, "You want coffee?" to which Sam had answered in the affirmative for want of anything better to say.

Dean put a mug of coffee on the table in front of Sam, before sitting himself down opposite, perched uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa.

If anything, Dean seemed more nervous than Sam.

"So," Sam managed, trying to think of an icebreaker.

Dean beat him to it. "Brother, huh?" he said, nodding. "You've sure grown since the last time I saw you."

Sam laughed, not expecting his brother to have much of a sense of humour. "Yeah," he said. "My Mom didn't think I was ever going to stop…" he trailed off. Dean had flinched at the word 'Mom'.

An awkward silence hung over them. Then Sam managed, "So, you lived here long?"

Dean shrugged. "Since I got out," he said, making tentative eye contact. "You – you know about – ?"

Sam nodded. "I'm a lawyer," he sounded like he was apologising. "I've read your file."

Dean smiled hollowly. "Yeah?" he said. "Mom always said you were gonna be a smart one."

That surprised Sam. "She – she did?"

Dean nodded. "Oh yeah. Used to call you her little Einstein."

Sam broke eye contact this time, unable to deal with the unbearable sadness in his brother's eyes.

"So," Dean said. "A lawyer? What sort of lawyer?"

"Criminal," Sam answered automatically. Maybe he shouldn't have said that.

A wry smile lifted the corners of Dean's mouth, and for a second Sam recognised the young man he'd seen in his dream. Despite the longer hair and couple of days growth on his chin. "So you checked me out, huh?"

Sam studied his feet some more. "I guess," he muttered. Then, looking up. "My parents – my adoptive parents. They didn't tell me I was adopted until I was fourteen," he explained. "They gave me a photo they said you wanted me to have."

Dean nodded, remembering. "Yeah," he said, a far-away look in his eyes. "Last time I saw you."

Sam was surprised at this. "When was that?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. "You were really little."

Sam decided to change tack. "Your file," he said. "It said you kept running away from your foster homes…"

Dean grinned, mirthlessly. "First time out, I only got as far as Topeka."

Sam nodded. "You were – what – seven?"

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Seven. Got all the way to Arizona a couple years later…"

Sam frowned, interrupting. "Why then?" he asked. "Why did you suddenly want to get away when you were seven? Did something happen…?"

A ghost of a smile continued to play with Dean's lips. "How old were you when your folks left Kansas?"

Sam shrugged. "Erm, three I guess."

Dean nodded at him. "Do the math, Sam."

Sam frowned. Then it hit him. When he was three, Dean would have been… "You – you ran away because of _me_?" he burst out, unable to quite process that little piece of information.

It was Dean's turn to shrug, more in embarrassment than anything else. "They made a promise to me that they didn't keep," he said, his voice calm and neutral. "Said even though they couldn't take us both, they'd still let me see you."

"And – and they didn't?"

"A couple of times," Dean answered. "Used to come visit me – wherever I'd ended up – and let me play with you for an hour or so. Last time was when I gave you that picture. It was all I had left of Mom and Dad. I thought you should have it. In case you forgot."

Their eyes locked, and this time neither looked away.

"And then they left?" Sam's voice was hoarse.

Dean nodded. "Told me you were going to live in sunny California. Your – your Dad – " it was clearly difficult for Dean to call him that. " – had got a job out there, and you were leaving. They said they were sorry, but they couldn't bring you all that way to visit." He turned to stare out the window for a second, before looking back. "Hell, I didn't even know where California was," he said. "All I knew was I had to find you. Had to keep you safe."

Sam frowned at this. "Keep me safe?" he said. "From what?"

Dean carried on looking at him, as if measuring him up. "How much do you know about how our parents died?"

Sam shrugged. "Not much. I know they died in a house fire."

Dean nodded. "Yeah," he said. "House fire. Right." He was smiling that mirthless smile again.

Sam frowned, reaching out a hand and touching his brother's arm. Dean looked up at him. "It _wasn't_ a house fire?"

Dean shrugged. "It was a fire," he confirmed. "It burned our house. Killed Mom and Dad…"

"But?"

Dean looked at him again. "Look, there was something else, something – ". He trailed off, as if struggling to put what he wanted to say into words.

Sam tried to push him. "Something – ?"

Dean was still looking at him, as if gauging how he would react, whether he could trust him with something… "You've had a pretty normal life, right?" he asked at length. "Nothing weird, out of the ordinary ever happened?"

Sam shrugged. "I guess."

Dean smiled. "That's good," he said. "I'm glad." Then, "OK, I guess the only way to say it is to say it." He took a deep breath. "There was something in the house with us. That night. I don't know what it was. I just know I felt it. Dad picked you up, gave you to me and told me to run. He went back for Mom. I didn't see him again. When I started to run down the stairs, I felt like something was following us. I could – I could feel it coming after us, like it was trying to grab onto us, keep us in that house. But we got out."

Sam was staring at him evenly, but didn't pass comment.

Dean appreciated the non-judgemental expression on his brother's face, and continued hurriedly, as if trying to get his story out in one quick burst. Like pulling off a Band Aid, maybe. "I don't know what it was," he repeated. "I don't know if it was after you, or after Mom, or after Dad. Or after me. I don't know. I just know I felt it. And I knew I had to protect you from it. That was why I kept trying to get to you. In California. 'Cause you didn't know. You didn't know it was out there. You didn't know it might be after you." Dean stopped abruptly, drawing breath while he stared down at his hands. He didn't speak for a minute, as if still trying to decide how much to tell his brother. After all, he didn't really know Sam any more than he knew the derelict who slept in the alley behind his apartment building; or the Indian guy who ran the deli across the street.

Eventually, he looked back up at Sam, and if it was possible, his eyes looked even more haunted than they had before. "I don't know if it was the same thing," he said, slowly, obviously struggling to maintain eye contact. "But I've felt something like that one other time…"

Sam frowned. "You – you have? When?"

Dean didn't seem to want to answer. He looked away again, down at his hands, his feet; the grubby beige carpet; the almost forgotten cup of coffee.

Anywhere but at Sam.

But Sam already understood. "Your foster father…"

Dean looked up at him then, nodding, slowly. This was obviously a painful subject for him, and Sam figured he'd probably not told too many people – if any – what had _really_ happened that night. "Well," he said at last, absently spinning the silver ring on his right hand. "You're not looking at me like I'm a complete nut job yet. I guess that's a good sign."

Sam inclined his head and arched an eyebrow. "You've not told me the whole story yet," he returned.

Dean smiled weakly. "OK," he said, taking a deep breath. "Of all people, you probably need to know the truth." He ran his hand through his hair while trying to decide where to start. "I had this friend. Bethany," he began eventually, fingers unconsciously toying with his ring some more. "We were in a few of the same foster homes. She – she was the same age as you – " here he looked at Sam, "and I guess I kind of adopted her like a little sister. She was all alone in the world. Her Dad ditched her when her Mom died. In a fire," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Sam nodded. He understood.

Dean continued. "So we kinda had something in common. When I was sixteen, I got moved to this foster home just outside Kansas City. There were about ten kids in there, and Bethany was one of them. She got moved around almost as much as I did, so our orbits didn't always collide and we'd not seen each other for about a year. At first, I thought I was imagining it, but eventually I realised something had happened to her since the last time I saw her – she'd changed completely, as if she was a totally different person, you know? She was quiet and withdrawn, when before, she was like the total life and soul of the party – all the time. To be honest, she was hard to keep up with sometimes."

Dean studied the carpet some more, for a second lost in his own memories.

Sam didn't say anything, figuring it was better just to let his brother talk. He obviously wanted to get this off his chest, and Sam was more than willing to listen, if only to help him better understand why Dean had done what he'd done.

Finally, Dean picked up his story. "Anyway," he said, trying unsuccessfully to hide the catch in his voice. "It didn't take me long to notice that all of the kids in that place were like that. Like they were all terrified of something. Or, as it turned out, someone."

"Jim Donnelly?" Sam hazarded a guess.

Dean couldn't disguise a shudder at the mention of his name. "Yeah," he said quietly. "The foster father from Hell." He met Sam's gaze squarely. "Literally."

Sam frowned, but didn't comment on his brother's odd choice of words.

Scratching the back of his neck, clearly still struggling to relate this story even after all these intervening years, Dean eventually managed to continue. "I don't know everything he was doing to those kids," he said, carefully, voice straining with the effort. "Second night I was there, he locked me in a closet and left me there for two days 'cause I wouldn't…" he trailed off, clearly not comfortable sharing that part of the story with Sam, once more avoiding all eye contact. He shrugged, as if trying to shrug off the memory itself. "Anyway," he continued, "when I asked Bethany about it, about what was going on in that place, what Donnelly was doing, she wouldn't – or maybe couldn't – tell me. She just told me to do as he said or he'd hurt me, and then they'd all suffer. Never did find out what she meant by that. But then, they were all like that, like little zombies. No fight left in 'em. Spoke in riddles all the time, like if they came out and actually said what was going on, that'd make it somehow more real, you know?"

Sam didn't know. Just when he thought he understood what Dean was saying, he'd say something like that and Sam would start to wonder if he was really following any of the conversation at all. Talk about speaking in riddles…

Dean shrugged again, not looking up long enough to see the expression on Sam's face. "Anyway," he continued. "I'd been there a couple of weeks when one night, I decided to go downstairs. Don't know why. Something in my head told me I was thirsty, but I wasn't."

Sam frowned again.

"So I go down to the kitchen," Dean continued. "And when I get down there, I hear crying coming from the living room." Here he managed to look back up at Sam. "I swear to God, to this day I don't know why I did it," he said, earnestly. "But for some reason, I picked up the biggest kitchen knife I could find before I went to see what was going on. When I looked through the living room door, I saw that it was Bethany crying. Donnelly was with her. Touching her." Dean's voice caught again. "And that's when I went in there with the knife. Told him to get the hell away from her." Dean faltered again, shuddering, and not from the cold. "And that's when I felt it," he added, for the first time since he began his story, actually locking eyes with his brother. "When he stood up and turned to look at me. He just stood there. Just looking at me. And, I swear Sam, I don't know whether it was the thing that killed Mom and Dad, but I felt something damn similar coming off of him. Like – like he was evil to the very core of his being. That was how the thing that chased us out of the house had felt too. Like the total absence of light." He shook his head. "I don't really know what happened next," he admitted. "The next thing I remember, I was laying on the floor with a bloody knife in my hand, and he was lying right next to me with this – this huge hole in his neck."

Dean sat back slightly on the sofa, as if relaxing now he'd finally unburdened himself.

Sam just stared at him in horror, for a moment uncertain how to respond. He was uncomfortably reminded of that incredibly vivid dream, of his brother dying in his arms with a huge hole in his neck, just like the one Dean had inflicted on his foster father. Finally, he managed to drag his voice up from somewhere far away. "Did you tell anyone?" he asked. "The Police? Your attorney?"

Dean laughed that sad hollow laugh of his. "What? That I slit my foster father's throat 'cause he was possessed by a demon? The same sort of demon that killed my parents? Jeez, they'd have locked me up forever!"

Sam wasn't sure whether to feel relieved by Dean's story – perhaps he wasn't a cold-blooded murderer after all – or insulted. Demons? Honestly? Did he really expect him to believe that? "What happened to Bethany?" he asked at length, trying to ignore a niggling half-memory at the back of his mind that kept telling him he knew that name from somewhere.

Dean's eyes slid back to the floor. "The day they sentenced me," he said. "She found the tallest building she could and jumped off the roof."

Sam shut his eyes for a second. "Twelve years old?" he asked.

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Shoulda still been playing with Barbie dolls and dreaming about ponies."

Sam considered his brother carefully. Dean was looking at him expectantly, as if waiting for Sam to pronounce sentence on him. "So that's your story?" he managed finally.

Dean shrugged. "Pretty much."

Sam nodded. "Demons."

"Yeah." The tone in Dean's voice had become flat again, the light that had appeared in his deadened eyes for the briefest of instants gone just as quickly, as the realisation hit him.

Sam didn't believe him.

"Demons," Sam repeated, his voice neutral, his expression as blank as he could make it. "A demon took our parents," he said. "You killed Jim Donnelly because he was possessed – "

"I never said he was possessed," Dean interjected. "What I said – what I meant – " he trailed off, the disbelief in his brother's eyes finally defeating him.

He stood suddenly, walking angrily into the kitchenette where he stood with his back to his kid brother.

He was shaking.

"You should go," he said quietly, not turning round.

Sam stood then, taking a hesitant step towards him. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. This wasn't the reunion he'd played out in his head. OK, his brother had killed someone. He could get past that. Maybe.

But demons?

Sam took a deep breath. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the image of Jessica pinned to the ceiling surrounded by angry flames, her stomach ripped open, came unbidden, and he had to put his hand on one of the dining chairs to steady himself.

Demons.

"I didn't say I didn't believe you," he heard himself saying. "I – I want to help you – "

"I didn't ask for your help," Dean spat, more venomously than he'd intended. He didn't turn around, angry at himself for trusting a complete stranger with something so obviously crazy as the story he'd just related. He gripped the counter top so hard his fingers hurt.

Sam took another step forward, about to say something – anything, that would cushion the blow of his scepticism. But before any words came out, he suddenly heard a little boy's voice echoing in his head, "It's all right, Sammy," while flashes of memories from events he'd never experienced assaulted his senses: his tenth birthday. when Dean charmed a waitress at some dive of a diner into giving him a free piece of chocolate cake with a candle stuck in the top; looking at himself in a mirror with blood running down his face, knowing he was going to die until his big brother smashed the thing into a million pieces; lying on someone's bedroom floor with electrical cord around his neck, struggling for a last gasp of air, just as Dean appeared to cut him loose in the nick of time.

Standing over his brother as he lay injured on the floor, pointing a gun at his head and pulling the trigger.

This last image made his head ache. He didn't want to see any more. He didn't want to remember any more. None of that was real, none of that had happened. None of it. Jessica was real. Jessica, Jenna and Matthew. They were waiting for him back home, back in his real life. He needed to get back to his real life.

This wasn't his real life.

"Dean, I'm sorry," he said slowly.

Then he turned and left.

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Sam had the radio up full all the way home. He needed to drown out the thoughts crowding into his head. He needed not to think.

But he couldn't get that last memory out of his mind. As he'd turned to leave Dean's apartment for good, his brother had turned to look at him. One last look. One last look that Sam had seen before. Somewhere. But not in this life.

Although Dean never said the words, his eyes were saying, "Don't leave me here alone."

But Sam had gone. Just like he had the last time, the time he knew had never happened, when he'd told his brother he was leaving for college and had just gone, just left him.

As before, Dean hadn't tried to stop him.

His chest hurt with the effort of breathing. His head throbbed, a dull ache, as it tried to banish the half-memories assaulting his brain.

They weren't memories.

They were just random images.

Hell, he didn't know what they were.

But he would leave them in Kansas. With his brother. He was going home to Jess and his kids. He was going home to a place where he could forget all about demons; about evil; about shooting his brother in the chest with rock salt.

Those things don't exist, he kept telling himself. They never did. They never happened.

He had to get back to Jess. Everything would be OK then.

He pulled onto his driveway, head pounding even harder, but more relieved to be home than he could ever articulate. The kids' bikes lay across the lawn, wheels still spinning as if only just abandoned.

He got out of the car, the sudden cessation of the noise from the radio contrasting acutely with the silence all around him. Total silence. He couldn't even hear birdsong.

Anxiety tugging at his insides, he began to walk towards the house, quickening his pace as the aching in his temples threatened to make him keel over completely.

Something was wrong.

"Jess?"

He opened the back door, looking about the darkened kitchen for any signs of his family. A chopping board sat on the counter, half chopped carrots abandoned next to a large kitchen knife.

"Jenna? Matty?" Sam walked through the kitchen slowly, for some reason picking up the big kitchen knife as he passed.

"Jess?"

He walked into the lounge, where the TV played to an empty room, the sound shut off so that the images on the screen left only eerie shadows on the walls and the ceiling.

"Jess?"

Sam moved through the lounge into the hallway, hardly daring to look up the stairs as he began to climb, almost tripping on one of Jenna's sneakers, discarded with the laces still tied.

"Jenna? Matthew?"

Sam moved down the hall, peering first into Jenna's room and then into Matthew's. Both empty.

As he neared the end of the hallway, he noticed the door to the master bedroom was pulled shut and his stomach lurched. This was wrong. This was all so wrong.

Gripping the knife tightly, he reached out for the door handle.

It felt warm.

Hardly daring to breathe, Sam opened the bedroom door.

He didn't dare look up.

"Sam," he heard Jessica's voice from somewhere above his head. "Sam, it took the children…"

And then the flames engulfed him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hopefully things will start to become clearer soon...**

**----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- **

Sam Winchester was looking at a picture of his father.

It was perched on an easel, surrounded by white lilies and a blue flower he didn't recognise. His Dad was smiling in the picture, and that seemed wrong somehow. He didn't remember his Dad smiling very often…

No wait. That was wrong. What was he thinking? Dad had smiled all the time. He shook his head, a slight frown creasing his brow. What had made him think that?

Faint pressure on his arm made him look to his left, where Jessica sat, her hand squeezing him gently, soothingly.

"You OK?" she whispered, looking up into his eyes, concern obvious on her pretty face.

Sam nodded. "Yeah," he replied quietly, looking back at the picture of his father. "Yeah, I'm fine."

The minister was speaking now.

"Although John Winchester endured terrible tragedy in his life – the loss of his first wife, Mary, the mother of his two sons, Dean and Sam – his resilience of spirit and his enthusiasm for life guided him through those dark times, leading him, eventually, to Maggie – " here the minister turned to a woman sitting in the front pew. She wore a black dress and a black hat with a veil, and was holding a white handkerchief to her eyes, trying hard not to cry as she leaned heavily on the teenaged girl sitting beside her, who had her arm around the woman's shoulders.

The girl had long dark hair tied into a ponytail with a black satin ribbon. She was crying too, tears streaming unchecked down her pale cheeks.

The minister smiled sadly. "And through Maggie," he continued, "John was blessed with a daughter – " here he gestured to the teenaged girl. " – Bethany."

Sam had drifted off, eyes unfocussed as they rested on the man lying in the open casket at the back of the chapel. He looked very peaceful, although somehow uncomfortable in a suit and tie. Sam had only seen him dressed that way once before: The day he had married Maggie.

Bethany.

He tuned back in to what the minister was saying.

Where had he heard that name before?

His half-sister. Of course. Bethany was his kid sister.

For some reason, his mind flashed onto a little girl jumping from the roof of a building. He didn't recognise the girl, and didn't know who she was. She had short red hair, and her eyes were almost the same colour, as if she hadn't stopped crying for days.

He shook his head, frowning, uncertain what had caused this bizarre image to invade his consciousness.

Jess was squeezing his arm again. The service was ending, his father's coffin sliding back towards the incinerator as organ music played softly. He didn't recognise the tune.

The lady in the front pew – Maggie – had given up all pretence at stoicism, and was now sobbing uncontrollably as Bethany helped her to her feet, trying to console her as best she could as she led her to the chapel door. The people in the seats around them began to stand too, nodding their heads in sympathy as they followed the two women towards the exit.

Sam stood then, leading Jessica by the hand. It was over and he was glad to be leaving. The chapel was too sombre, too quiet to contain his father. Wherever John was now, Sam pictured him with Mary, smiling again.

Sam smiled too.

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"So your brother didn't make it?" Jessica asked, as she and Sam followed the rest of the mourners from the building. It was sunny outside, but cold, the autumn air fresh and biting.

There had been a big turnout, and Sam was heartened to see so many of his Dad's friends there, making their way slowly up the street to Maggie's house, where Sam hoped they would give his father a _real_ send off.

He hadn't really expected Dean to show. He and Dad hadn't spoken in years, and he wasn't exactly easy to track down.

Still, somewhere deep down inside, Sam had hoped…

"I guess not," he replied to Jessica's question, trying not to sound too cut up about his older brother's absence. Jess knew better.

"Sam!" Maggie was standing in the midst of a crowd of her friends, her hands held out towards her stepson as the well-wishers about her began to dissipate.

Sam smiled sadly at her, taking her hands in his own before she pulled him into a hug.

"Sam, I'm so glad you're here," Maggie said quietly, keeping Sam close a little longer before pulling slightly away.

Bethany, who had been talking to the minister, appeared at her mother's side and Sam thought she looked uncomfortable in the sensible black dress she wore. He couldn't help smiling at the way she tugged at the collar – just like Dean had that time Sam had forced him to wear a suit…

Sam frowned. When was that again? They'd been trying to look at plane wreckage…

No, wait a second. Sam had never been anywhere like that with Dean. Hell, he hadn't even _seen_ Dean for four years.

He looked back at Bethany, trying to remember what he had been thinking about. Dean. That was it. Sam had been thinking how much Bethany reminded him of Dean. She had Dean's eyes, his smile. They pretty much shared the same fiery temperament too, although Bethany swore she didn't get that off their Dad.

"Hey, squirt," Sam said to her, smiling. "Who knew you had legs, huh?"

Bethany looked down at her skirt and grimaced. "I'm sure Dad wouldn't have objected if I'd shown up in jeans – " she moaned.

"Bethany," Maggie interjected, her voice stern. "We've had this fight, and you promised."

Bethany pulled a face. "Yes, Mom," she said, trying to sound like the obedient little daughter but not really pulling it off. Everyone knew better.

Maggie smiled, returning her attention to Sam. "I wish your brother had made it," she said, her voice full of regret.

Bethany looked away and Jessica shifted uncomfortably, squeezing Sam's arm again.

Sam nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Me too."

"You know," Maggie continued. "The doctors tell me it was a heart attack that took your father. But I know better." She put her hand on Sam's arm. "His heart was broken."

Sam covered Maggie's hand with his own. "I know," he said quietly.

Maggie smiled sadly again, before putting her hand affectionately on Sam's cheek. "Still," she said, brightening. "You and Jessica are here. That's something."

Sam just returned her smile, suddenly aware of the odd look that had just appeared on Bethany's face.

"You can stay for a few days, can't you?" Maggie was saying. "We'd love to have you."

Sam started to shake his head, before Jessica put in, "We have to be back at Stanford by Monday." She looked up at Sam and smiled proudly. "Big interview."

Maggie nodded. "Of course!" she burst out. "The Law School interview! How did I forget that? Oh Sam, your Dad was so proud of you!"

"I know he was," Sam replied. "He told me enough times. I only wish…"

"He could have lived to see your hard work pay off?" Maggie finished his sentence for him, and he nodded. She'd always had a knack of knowing just what was going on in his head, even when he was a little kid.

Maggie took his hand. "He will, Sam," she said. "He will."

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Sam watched the patch of sunlight brighten at his feet as the October clouds scudded by, allowing more of the sun's rays to filter in through the open dining room doors. He glanced out into the garden beyond, where Maggie was proudly showing Jessica her prize-winning roses, and smiled.

A hand on his elbow brought him back to earth, and he redirected his smile at Bethany, who had thus far resisted the temptation to change into jeans and a t-shirt. After all, the house was still full of Dad's friends, and she didn't want to let the side down.

"Hey," Sam said gently. "How're you doing?"

Bethany shrugged, pushing a stray lock of dark brown hair behind her ear. "Better than yesterday," she replied wistfully, following Sam's gaze out onto the garden. "Poor Jess," she said. "Mom sure loves her roses. And loves everyone else to love her roses."

"Jess doesn't mind," Sam said, his heart beating a little faster at the sound of Jessica's laughter.

Bethany looked up at him again, an odd mixture of sadness and concern on her face. "You really love her, huh?"

Sam, surprised by the question, met her gaze evenly. "More every day," he replied honestly.

Bethany's sad smile faltered, and she looked away, as if she'd couldn't bear to maintain eye contact with her big brother.

Sam frowned, putting a hand on Bethany's shoulder. "Beth?" he said. "What's wrong?"

Bethany bit her lip, just the way Dean used to. "Have you – Sam, have you heard from Dean lately?"

It was Sam's turn to look away. "No," he replied. "Last time I heard from him, he was hunting vampires in New Mexico somewhere."

Bethany nodded. "That was almost two years ago," she observed.

Sam shrugged. "Yeah. Time flies. Thought he might show today though. You told him, right?"

"About Dad?" Bethany said. She looked uncomfortable. "I didn't need to. He already knew."

Sam frowned. "He knew Dad was dead before you told him?" That didn't make sense. He knew Dean was kind of – well – out there, but as far as Sam was aware, he wasn't psychic. "How could he have known that?"

Bethany bit her lip again, as if trying to decide whether to tell him something. Then, "Sam, something's wrong."

Sam turned to face her this time, concern in his eyes. "With Dean?" he asked. He and his older brother may not have seen eye to eye for a long time, but he was still family.

Bethany's brow furrowed. "Yeah, sort of," she said. "Sam, the last time I spoke to him, he sounded – well – kind of – of – crazy."

Sam would have laughed if he hadn't had serious concerns about Dean's sanity himself in the past. "So what else is new?" he said, trying to cover his genuine concern. "This hunting thing – "

Bethany examined her feet and kicked awkwardly at the doormat.

Sam squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "Look," he said. "I know Dean took you with him sometimes – hunting." Here Bethany looked genuinely shocked. "Don't worry," Sam continued. "I never told Dad." Bethany seemed to breathe again. "But you didn't actually buy into all this hunting evil, saving the world from ghosts and demons crap did you?"

Bethany looked up at him and shrugged. "Dad used to believe it – "

"Until your Mom made him see sense!" Sam interrupted. "Thank God," he added. "I don't even want to think where me and Dean would have ended up if it hadn't been for her." He shifted his attention back to his stepmom. "If Dad hadn't met her – if she hadn't shown him how his ridiculous obsession was screwing up his kids – "

"He would probably be missing along with Dean right now," Bethany finished.

That got Sam's attention. "Dean's missing?" he echoed.

Bethany nodded. "Sam, I know that you and Dad didn't agree with Dean's decision to carry on hunting for the thing that killed your Mom – "

"Nothing killed our Mom, Beth," Sam insisted. "She died in a house fire. Even Dad came to admit the truth of that eventually!"

"OK," Bethany said in a conciliatory tone. "I know you never got into the hunting thing like Dean did – "

"I was five when Dad met your Mom, Beth," Sam pointed out. "I barely even remember any of that life!"

"But you saw some stuff, right? Stuff that at least made you wonder if maybe Dean was right to carry on believing? To carry on hunting?"

Sam didn't answer.

"Sam?"

"There's no such thing as monsters, Beth," Sam asserted firmly, trying to push away a weird image of his being chased through an abandoned mine by a seven-foot flesh-eater. "It's all in Dean's head. Even Dad said so."

Bethany nodded. "OK," she said. "But, Sam, I've seen stuff, when I've been out with Dean – "

"No you haven't," Sam returned. "You just say that 'cause you want to hang out with your big brother in his cool car – "

"Sam," Bethany had an intensely serious look on her face. "Whether you believe what Dean hunts is real or not isn't the issue here. The last time I heard from him was a couple of weeks ago. He left me this really weird voicemail telling me we were all in danger – that something was after us – that I should be careful." Here Bethany put her hands on Sam's upper arms and turned him to face her. "And the next thing I know – the very next week – Dad's dead and Dean's missing!"

Sam looked as if he was about to laugh. "I don't know who's crazier," he said, shaking his head. "You or Dean." He lowered his voice, deadly serious now. "And I don't believe for one second that you're seriously telling me you think – "

"Dad didn't die of a heart attack," Bethany stated, absolute certainty in her words. "It was the thing that killed your Mom, Sam. The thing Dean warned me about." She paused. Then, "I think it got Dad too."

Sam did laugh now. "Do you know how stupid that sounds?" he said, pulling away from her and making as if to walk off into the garden.

"Sam!" Bethany caught his arm, and he stopped. "Sam, whatever you believe," she said, her face suddenly a mask of real fear. "Dean's in trouble. He needs our help. If he's not dead already. I can feel it."

Sam froze, staring at his kid sister with a look that was almost terror. Sam had heard those words before. But it had been Dean, not Bethany, who had spoken them. And he'd been speaking about Dad.

No, no that wasn't right, Sam told himself. You're remembering wrong.

"I don't want to hear this," he said, pulling away from his sister and backing towards the garden doors. "It's nuts – "

"Sam," Bethany moved towards him. "Please. You've got to help me find Dean. I can't do this alone."

"Yes you can," Sam said the words without thinking, almost as if he was reciting a script he knew by heart but had never read.

"Well, I don't want to," Bethany returned, saying the words Sam knew she was going to say.

Sam shook his head. "No," he said, a dull throbbing starting to ache in his temples. "No, this isn't right."

Bethany moved then, taking his hands and pulling him towards her, the expression on her face now totally changed – an expression totally alien to her face. Desperation. Panic. Anger.

"You remember, don't you?" she demanded, her words whispered and urgent, her voice conspiratorial, as if she didn't want someone to hear. Her whole demeanour had changed utterly, and Sam could have sworn she seemed taller. "Sam," she prodded. "You remember. This isn't how it's supposed to be!"

Bethany glanced over her shoulder, as if looking at something – someone Sam couldn't see. She seemed nervous, frightened even.

"Sam, you have to remember," she continued, once more glancing behind her. "You can't go on like this. This isn't your life, and no amount of wishing can make it true! Jess is gone – you have to accept that. You have to move on! You can't – Damn it!" she broke off suddenly, turning away from him, facing the empty space into which she had been glancing. Her face was a mask of anger now. "No!" she burst out, apparently talking to thin air. "No, this can't go on! It's killing him! Can't you see that? He's lost – he can't find his way back. He's going to be lost in here until it kills him! Do you think that's what his father intended?"

Bethany stood now, hands on hips, defiant and angry. "Wait! No – no you can't! Damn you, you can't!"

She turned desperately back to face Sam, grabbing him firmly by the shoulders and shaking him. "Wake up Sam!" she cried. "Wake up! It's all an illusion! You've got to – "

There was suddenly a flash of blinding light and…

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"Wake up!"

Dean Winchester sat up as if shot. "Huh?" He glanced around himself, sleepily, for a minute uncertain where he was. He could feel the crisp hospital sheets beneath his fingers. Could hear the faint beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor. Could see the dull creamy-coloured paint peeling off the hospital room walls.

Could feel Sam's fingers, still warm under his own.

"Sam?" he muttered the word reflexively, his every waking thought of late so consumed by worry over the welfare of his kid brother that his name was always the first thing into his head.

Sam was still there. His chest was rising and falling in a slow, lazy rhythm, his eyelids still fluttering in some crazy REM sleep tango. He looked paler than he had when Dean had finally crashed out, head falling in exhaustion against his brother's hospital bed.

How long had he been sleeping?

"What time is it?" he asked the young nurse who was leaning over his brother's bedside. His eyes struggled to focus on his wristwatch, but failed completely.

"Seven thirty," the nurse answered. She sounded kind of distracted, and Dean looked up at her quizzically.

"Everything OK?" he asked nervously.

The nurse glanced down at him, as if only just realising he was there. She smiled brightly, like nurses were supposed to, and Dean relaxed a little. He was suddenly acutely aware that he still had his fingers wrapped around Sam's oblivious hand, and let go abruptly. No point in ruining his chances. The nurse was pretty hot, after all.

"Your brother's as well as can be expected," the nurse replied, busying herself by reading the information on Sam's monitor.

"For someone who's been asleep for a week," Dean noted with a sigh.

He'd seen the nurse in Sam's room a hundred times since he'd been brought in here, but it was only now that he realised he didn't know her name. He squinted at the name tag pinned to her chest, trying not to look like he was checking her out. That would just be downright inappropriate. Then, "So, Bethany – "

The nurse seemed surprised that Dean had used her name.

"What are the docs saying now? Any idea when my brother's gonna wake up?"

The nurse glanced over at Sam as he continued to slumber. "Only he knows that," she said.

Dean frowned. What kind of answer was that? "Yeah, but – " he replied. "They can't even tell me what's wrong with him. So it's not a coma. What the freakin' hell is it?"

The nurse turned back towards him, pushing a stray lock of blonde hair back into the neat little ponytail from which it had escaped. "I can tell you this," she said earnestly. "It's killing him."

Dean was momentarily stunned by the nurse's honestly. "Hey, don't sugar coat it, will you?" he said, his gaze drifting back to Sam. It seemed as if he'd been lying there a lot longer than a week.

Bethany faltered. "I'm sorry," she said, sounding surprisingly genuine. "I didn't mean to be so blunt."

Dean surveyed her thoughtfully. "That's OK," he conceded. "It's nice that someone around here has the balls to tell me the truth."

Bethany laughed a little. "Yeah, well," she said. "Just don't tell my boss."

She turned back towards Sam, and made a show of taking his pulse. Dean had seen her do that a hundred times, too, and didn't usually pay much attention. But tonight, for some reason, he found himself watching her slyly out of the corner of his eye. She'd turned herself slightly so that her body blocked Dean's view of what she was doing, unaware that Dean had quietly shifted his position to get a better look.

Something didn't feel right.

And that was when Dean saw Bethany put her hand on Sam's forehead. Not unusual in and of itself. Except maybe for the part where her hand was glowing…

There was a look of complete surprise on Bethany's face when she suddenly found herself spun around, wrist gripped very tightly in Dean's left hand, while his right had managed to encircle her throat.

"You've got two seconds to tell me what you just did to my brother. Then I start squeezing." Dean jerked the hand around the girl's throat just enough for her to get the message.

"Wait!" she gasped, a look of panic in her pale blue eyes. "It's not what it looks like!"

"Oh no?" Dean said, squeezing a little harder. "What does it look like?"

"Wait, wait!" Bethany grabbed hold of Dean's wrist, trying to prise his grip off her throat. She wasn't very successful.

"Your two seconds are up," Dean observed, Bethany's eyes widening as he made a move as if to strangle her.

"OK, OK!" she gasped. "Wait, wait. Please listen to me! I'm trying to help you!" she glanced at Sam. "I'm trying to help _both_ of you!"

Dean paused. "What did you do to my brother?" he repeated, steely gaze boring into her now.

Bethany took a breath. "I was checking his condition – " she began.

"Yeah, well," Dean returned. "Use a thermometer next time! That whole glowy hand thing? It's pretty unsettling."

Bethany nodded. "I'm not a nurse," she admitted.

Dean rolled his eyes at the obviousness of that statement. "Yeah, pretty much figured that out for myself," he said.

"Please," Bethany begged, again trying to loosen Dean's grip on her neck. "You're hurting me. I swear I didn't do anything to your brother."

Dean considered her for a second. "Are you responsible for what's wrong with him?" he demanded.

Bethany shook her head as best she could under the circumstances. "No," she said. "I swear."

"And _I_ swear," Dean said, pulling her close and looking her right in the eye. "If you're lying to me, I'll kill you. I mean it." He released his hold on her and took a step backwards.

Bethany returned his gaze. "I believe you," she said quietly, massaging her neck. She glanced back at Sam, still oblivious, twitching slightly in his sleep.

"Well?" Dean prodded. "This better be one hell of an explanation."

Bethany looked back at him. "I really was checking his condition," she said. "That's my job."

Dean frowned. "Job?" he echoed. "Who do you work for?" He wasn't entirely convinced she was telling him the truth. But she didn't seem to be lying, either.

"It's not exactly that I _work_ for anyone," Bethany began. "It's sort of a family business."

"Your family?"

Bethany nodded. "But I guess you could say that our services were engaged by someone…"

Dean stiffened. "Who?" he demanded, a truly dangerous look in his eyes.

Bethany bit her lip. "Your father."


	4. Chapter 4

**A bit talky this next bit... But hopefully everything should be starting to become clear by the end...**  
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Sam wasn't sure where he was.

He'd been talking to Bethany when she'd started to sound more than a little crazy, and then, all of a sudden, he was here.

Except he didn't know where 'here' was.

It was very dark, and no matter how hard he blinked he couldn't see a single thing.

"Sam?"

"Jessica?"

She was standing in front of him wearing a long white dress, the only light in the place seeming to come from within her.

"Jess, where are we?" Sam asked, trying to move towards her, but unable to.

Jessica didn't answer. "Sam, you need to choose now," was all she said.

Sam frowned. "Choose?" he echoed. "Choose what?"

Jessica reached up and ran her fingers down his cheek. "I think you know," she said sadly.

She turned away from him, almost as if in slow motion, and began to walk away. The light followed her as she moved.

"Jessica?"

"Choose, Sam."

Jessica reached out her hand, and Sam suddenly became aware of a door just in front of her. Grasping the handle, the door swung open, and Jessica disappeared within the room beyond, the door closing behind her with a disturbingly quiet click.

"Jess!" Sam rushed over towards the door, grabbing the handle and wrenching it open.

The room on the other side was dimly lit, cold tile floor cracked and broken, years of grime coating every surface.

"Sam?"

Sam looked down.

Dean was lying on the floor, his breathing laboured as he clutched at an injury to his chest.

Sam entered the room quickly, his initial concern for his brother altering into something else as he crossed the threshold of the room and stepped onto the broken tile.

He had a gun in his hand, and it was pointed at his brother's head.

Dean managed to raise his shoulders enough to look up at him, fear mixed with disbelief and genuine pain in his eyes.

But it wasn't physical pain. It went much, much deeper than that.

"You hate me that much?" he said, his voice weakening with the effort.

Sam gripped the handgun, his hand steady.

"Choose, Sam," he heard Jessica's voice, and found himself scanning the room for her. But he couldn't see her anywhere.

"Sam," Dean said suddenly. "It's time to choose."

Sam pulled the trigger.

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"I should've strangled you," Dean said, shaking his head. "I knew it."

"Wait," Bethany caught his arm as he began to turn away in disbelief. "Just listen!"

"My Dad would _never_ hurt Sammy – " Dean started to object, but Bethany squeezed his arm to quieten him.

"No," she agreed. "He wouldn't That's not what this is about. This – " she gestured at Sam. "This has all gone wrong! They've lost control but won't admit it!"

Dean frowned. "English, lady."

"OK," Bethany took a breath. "Your father hired my – my family – "

"You said that already."

"To undertake a – a – " Bethany seemed to struggle for the right phrase. "A 'research project' for him."

Dean frowned. "What sort of research project?"

The girl was obviously choosing her words very carefully. "He – he needed to know something, an answer to a question."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Jeez, this is like pulling teeth," he muttered. "Less of the cryptic, honey, I'm not in the mood."

"OK, OK," Bethany started to speak faster, looking over her shoulder for a second, as if there was someone standing behind her that Dean couldn't see. "My family – we're – well, I guess you could say – we – we practise the magical arts – "

Dean grimaced. "You're _witches_?" he burst out, shaking his head. "Ah, man, I _hate _witches!"

Bethany pulled at his arm again to re-focus his attention. "Just listen!" she urged. "Your father. He approached my – my family – "

"Your coven," Dean put in.

Bethany nodded, sheepishly. "Yes," she conceded. "My coven. He said he needed the answer to a question that had been haunting him for twenty-two years. He thought we could help him."

Dean raised an eyebrow. Twenty-two years? "Go on," he said.

Bethany sighed, relieved Dean was at least hearing her out. "He said he needed to know whether the choices he had made in his life since a particular event –"

"My Mom's death," Dean interjected.

" – Had been the right ones," Bethany continued, nodding. "He said he needed to know whether, if things had been different, if events had played out another way, his life, his sons' lives, could have been different. Better somehow."

Dean wasn't entirely sure he believed what he was hearing. That didn't sound like the old man. Self-doubt wasn't something that Dean had ever seen bother him. "So what does this have to do with Sam?" he asked, dreading the answer.

As if on cue, Sam twitched violently in his sleep, before becoming perfectly still once more.

Dean and Bethany both turned concerned eyes on him for a second, before Bethany answered Dean's question.

"My sisters," she said. "They needed a conduit, a way to visualise the different choices your father could have made. Usually," she looked slightly abashed. "That would be my job."

"Your job?" Dean didn't understand.

Bethany shrugged. "My gift," she rephrased. "I'm what's called a Dreamwalker. I can manifest in other people's dreams, guide their experiences."

Dean considered that for a second. "Cool," he muttered. Then, "And that's what you're doing to Sam?"

Bethany shook her head. "No," she said. "That what I was _supposed_ to be doing for your father, but then he mentioned that one of his sons was a pre-cognitive dreamer."

Dean had never heard it called that before. "OK," he said. "Sam's a freak. Got it."

Bethany pulled a face at him. She'd experienced enough of Sam's dreams to know by now that Dean didn't mean half the things he said about his little brother. "When the – the coven – " she stumbled over the word. "When they heard that Sam had this ability, they came up with the idea of using him as the conduit instead of me. Instead of my guiding your father's dreams, I was to observe Sam's; make sure that his dreams were progressing in the right way for us to be able to provide your father with the answers he was seeking, and make sure Sam himself was all right – "

"Check on his condition," Dean finished her sentence, nodding.

"Exactly," Bethany agreed. "Because of Sam's ability, my sisters thought they would be able to use his dreams to answer your father's question with a greater degree of accuracy. Had I been guiding _his_ dreams, we would have been limited by my knowledge of your family, the circumstances of your father's life. They wouldn't be as realistic or as accurate – "

"As someone who had more first hand experience of the subject," again Dean finished her explanation for himself. "So what were you doing here?"

"I needed to be in proximity to Sam to actually manifest in his dreams."

"You were actually _in_ his dreams?" Dean sounded impressed, as well as more than a little freaked out.

"Sometimes, yes," Bethany nodded. "If I was concerned about Sam's wellbeing. Or I felt I needed to influence the dream slightly in order to provide the right results necessary to answer your father's question. But a lot of the time, if I only needed to check on Sam's progress, I could access his dreams remotely."

Dean frowned. "Run that by me again?"

Bethany smiled. "If I manifest in one of the dreams, I become one of the characters," she explained. "If I just want to check on its progress, I just have to have one of the characters say my name. I don't have to be as close to Sam to do that."

Dean nodded. "Ooooohkay…" he said slowly. "So when you manifest. Who do you appear as?"

"Usually an extraneous character if I can. Someone who wasn't there in the original memory on which the dream is based. Very rarely as one of the principals. Although I can do that if the dream requires some serious retuning."

"You can?"

Bethany nodded. "But so can Sam. Which is where the problems begin."

Dean didn't like the sound of that. "What problems?"

"Well," Bethany began. "Usually a guided dreamer always appears as themselves in their dream – "

"That makes sense."

"So they can only dream within the realms of what they have or could ever experience." Bethany noticed the blank expression on Dean's face and added, "Say I was guiding your dream. You wouldn't have a dream about your being a Laker Girl. Or a Playboy model."

Dean thought about that for longer than he probably should have. "I get it," he said. "Might be fun though…"

Bethany carried on regardless. "But because Sam is guiding his _own_ dreams, he seems to be able to do pretty much whatever he wants, with no-one to keep him in check or steer him in the direction required for the project to work. For us to reach an answer to your father's original question. In his first dream, for example, he was you – "

Dean did a double take. "He was what?"

"You," Bethany repeated. "He saw from your point of view."

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "Why – why – why would he do that?" he asked uncertainly.

"I guess because his experience of the event he was dreaming about would have been too limited had he observed it from his own perspective."

"Why?"

"Well," Bethany shrugged. "Because he was a baby during that event."

Dean shuddered, sudden realisation dawning on him. "The fire," he guessed. "The night Mom died."

Bethany nodded. "Yes," she confirmed.

Dean tried to make out that this didn't bother him, but failed miserably. "So he saw the fire as if he was me?"

Bethany nodded.

He smiled awkwardly. "You know, that's kinda freaky," he said, frowning. Then, "But why not be Dad? He saw more than I did."

"It's easiest to view from the nearest, most comfortable vantage point when we manifest as someone other than ourselves," Bethany explained. "We don't have to fight the personality we've assumed if it's someone we know, someone we understand. Someone really close to us. Generally, if we can't manifest as ourselves, we jump to the closest person to us."

Dean started to fidget again, embarrassed by Bethany's unintentional analysis of his relationship with his brother. "So – so that's a problem?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

"No," Bethany explained. "Not usually. Other than it makes my job harder. It took me a while to figure out who Sam was in that dream."

Dean nodded.

"The problem," Bethany continued, "is that because I'm not guiding Sam's dreams, I'm only allowed to play a set role if I manifest. I can only act as that person would act. I'm allowed to influence the dream in very small ways, but if I interfere with the direction the dream is taking, the coven will pull me out of the dream to avoid my 'tainting the purity of the research', as they put it." Bethany looked decidedly irritated by this last.

"So they can observe too?" Dean asked.

"Yes," Bethany replied. "Through me. They watch every move I make in there."

"And you've tried to interfere with Sam's dreams?"

Bethany flushed. "I'm that transparent, huh?" she asked. "Yes. I tried. When I realised what was happening. I tried to wake him."

"Can't the coven wake him?" Dean asked. "If this is their doing in the first place – "

"That's the problem," Bethany explained. "Ordinarily, yes, we can wake a guided dreamer whenever we choose."

"Then why don't you?" Dean demanded. "Why's Sam still asleep?"

"Because he's _not_ a guided dreamer," Bethany replied. "We're not in control of his dreams." She hoped the importance of that statement was sinking in. "Sam is. Sam's guiding his own dreams, and we've lost control of him. He was supposed to be dreaming scenarios that would help answer your father's question. That was part of the original incantation that sent him into the dream state in the first place. And at first, that's what he did: He dreamed he died as a baby in the fire that took your Mom."

Dean flinched. "How could that make _anyone_'s life better?" he asked.

Bethany shrugged. "There are many different directions your father's life could have taken," she answered. "That was just one possibility. But then he had another dream, one that made me wonder if something hadn't gone wrong. He dreamt that _you_ were killed instead of Jessica."

Dean didn't like the sound of that. "Dad wanted to see what would happen if I died?" he asked uncertainly.

"No," Bethany explained. "That's just it! Your father would never have considered that scenario at all – he didn't know enough about Sam's relationship with Jessica for it to have even occurred to him. That's how I knew something was wrong. Sam's making up his own scenarios now – he's not trying to answer your father's question any more. He's trying to answer his own. Trying to find his own perfect solution to the way _his_ life has turned out, not your father's."

"Choosing Jessica to live instead of me – " Dean muttered uncomfortably.

"Or Jessica instead of your father," Bethany added. "Which is what his last dream revolved around. That's the problem. He keeps coming back to Jessica. In his dreams, he's trying to save her, to create a perfect world where she doesn't die and they can be together. And the more he fails, the further into the dream world he falls. The more he becomes lost. Dean, I wasn't kidding when I said only Sam knows when he's going to wake up. Sam's the only one keeping himself trapped in the dream state. Sam's the only one that can snap himself out of it, force himself to return to the waking world."

Dean nodded slowly, the full gravity of Sam's precarious situation finally starting to sink in. "If he finds his perfect life," he asked carefully. "He might never wake up?"

"Even if he doesn't find it," Bethany added. "He could spend the rest of his life trying."

This was so bad on so many levels Dean didn't even know where to start. "So we need to find some way to wake him?" he offered.

"Yes," Bethany replied. "Sooner rather than later."

"Why the urgency?" Dean asked. "He's OK, right? Just asleep?"

"For now," Bethany answered. "But the mental strain of what he's trying to do – the physical toll it's taking on him – he could die, Dean. He could die soon. And I mean days, not years."

Dean felt like someone had just pulled the floor out from beneath his feet. Right now, Sam was all he had, and the thought of losing him… Well, that wasn't going to happen. He'd see to that.

"Your coven knows all this?" he asked, finally.

Bethany nodded. "Yes. I've told them. I've shown them the danger Sam's in. But they just won't admit it."

"Does my Dad know?" Dean had to ask.

Bethany looked at him uncertainly. "I don't know," she replied truthfully. "I would guess not. If he did, I think he would have found a way to make them stop this."

"Can they?" Dean seized on her words. "Can they make it stop?"

Bethany shrugged. "No," she said, suddenly aware of the slump in Dean's shoulders. "But I might be able to."

Dean looked up at her.

"I could try at least. If they'd only let me."

"But they won't let you interfere in the dreams, right?" Dean understood. "They'd pull you out again?"

"That's right," Bethany said. "They can see everything I do when I'm in Sam's dreams. Everything. I try and wake him, I try and convince him he needs to return to reality – they yank me straight out." She stopped abruptly, a sudden light in her eyes as she considered Dean thoughtfully.

Dean started to fidget again under her scrutiny. "What?" he asked.

"They see everything _I_ do," she muttered. "But if someone _else_ were to get in there, try to make Sam see sense…" she trailed off for a second. "They wouldn't be able to do a thing about it."

Dean frowned at her, unsure where she was headed. She was still staring at him like he was from another planet. "You know another Dreamwalker?" he asked tentatively.

Bethany shook her head. "Doesn't have to be a Dreamwalker," she said, suddenly grabbing his upper arms and pushing him back down into the chair in which he'd fallen asleep.

"Hey, what's – " Dean stopped, Bethany's scrutiny of him really starting to creep him out. Then it hit him. "Now, just wait a second – " he started to protest.

"This is perfect," Bethany was saying, ignoring the uncertain look on Dean's face.

"What is?" Dean really didn't like the sound of this.

"I can help you," Bethany continued as if Dean hadn't even spoken. "Put you into a dream state and help _you_ into Sam's dreams…"

"You can put me into Sam's dreams?" Dean repeated, pretty sure he'd misunderstood, as that whole idea seemed way too voyeuristic for him to get his head around.

Bethany had her hands on his shoulders, pushing him against the chair. "You just stay there," she ordered. "Leave everything to me."

"Wait, wait!" Dean said, pushing her away. "Just – just hold your horses there, sweetheart!" He needed time to think about this. This wasn't something a person did lightly. This was his brother's consciousness they were talking about invading. Spying on. He ran a hand over his forehead. "You want to put me in Sam's dream?" he said slowly, seeking clarification if not reassurance.

Bethany nodded. "Yes."

"OK," Dean muttered. "And you – you'd do that how?"

"You'd just be sleeping," Bethany assured him. "I'd just put you to sleep and guide you over."

"So you'd be there too?"

"Maybe. Depends who else is in the dream."

"But I'd be me?"

"If you're in the dream."

"And if I'm _not_ in the dream?"

"Then you'd be someone else."

"Like who?"

"Depends who's in the dream."

Dean shook his head. "OK. But I could get out again? I wouldn't be trapped in there with Sam? 'Cause I wouldn't be much use to him if neither of us could get out."

Bethany nodded. "Yes. I'd be able to pull you out. You'll only be an observer, not in control like Sam is."

"So," Dean was slowly starting to get his head around it. "If I could persuade Sam to come back to the waking world – show him the way out – ?"

"The dream would end, and you'd both be awake."

Dean considered that. "Huh," he muttered, weighing his options. Although there weren't really that many to weigh. "So all I need to do is persuade Sam to come back with me? That he's better off in the real world than he is in his own little fantasy land?"

Bethany shrugged. "In theory."

"I feel so much better," Dean muttered sarcastically. Then, "OK. Knock yourself out, sister." He grinned, shaking his head. "Or maybe that should be 'knock _me_ out'."

Bethany smiled, moving her hand towards Dean's forehead.

"Wait," Dean caught hold of her wrist before she could touch him. "Just tell me I'm gonna be me when I get over there? I'm not gonna come out as Sam or something? Couldn't cope with the altitude. I'm sure I'd get nosebleeds up there…"

Bethany laughed. "Humour as a defence mechanism. You know, you're kind of a cliché…"

"Shut up," Dean replied shortly.

"Let me see…" Bethany moved over to Sam, putting her hand on his forehead and closing her eyes, as if in deep concentration. Her hand started to glow, just as Dean had seen it do before.

Dean watched her for a second, her eyelids fluttering as if she, too, was deeply asleep.

Then all of a sudden, her eyes snapped open and she smiled broadly at him.

"Well?"

Bethany's smile was becoming more alarming by the second. "You're not in the dream he's having," she said. "But don't worry. You'll know all the lines…"

"Huh?" Dean didn't like the sound of that.

Bethany pushed him back against the chair, her hand moving to his temple. "Hold still," she said, then, softening her voice, "Just relax. Close your eyes."

Dean always felt distinctly uncomfortable when a woman told him to close his eyes, but he did as he was instructed regardless, feeling anything but relaxed.

Bethany's hand felt warm on his skin, the heat radiating through his body – down his arms to his fingertips, down his legs to his toes – until he felt a complete sense of calm and well being, a sensation he didn't remember feeling since – well, since before his Mom died.

"Just relax," he heard Bethany say again, her voice sounding distant, far away. "Relax."

Dean felt himself drifting towards sleep, becoming less and less aware of his surroundings as the colours started to blur into darkness.

Then he heard Bethany's voice one last time. "Go to sleep now. Oh, and Dean? Don't touch anything you shouldn't…"


	5. Chapter 5

**Ladies, please don't hate me for what I do to Dean in this chapter... It's only temporary, I assure you.  
This is supposed to be the light relief chapter...  
**

**--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- **

Dean made a sudden grab for the window frame.

Half in, half out of the window, vertigo assaulted him as he looked down, not entirely sure where he was. Two storeys up. Not so bad. At least he hadn't fallen.

Where the hell _was_ he?

He didn't remember coming here; wasn't sure where 'here' was.

Yet the window – and the room beyond it – looked vaguely familiar.

Well, he couldn't stay here all night, he decided, figuring he was more likely going in than coming out.

Hoisting himself over the window ledge, he had a brief, bizarre sensation of falling further into the room on the other side than he should have done, almost as if his legs were shorter than they ought to have been.

This was weird.

He looked down at his feet in the dim glow cast by the streetlight beyond the window. Sneakers. But not his sneakers. His feet looked kind of small.

This was _really_ weird.

As he turned to move through the room, he heard a rustling sound at his collar. There was something back there, dangling down the back of his neck.

He groped behind him in an attempt to identify whatever it was, just as he passed a long mirror on the wall.

And did a double take when he caught sight of his reflection.

"Ah man!" he burst out, the true horror of his situation crashing in on him in one moment of hideous clarity. "I'm a _girl_!"

Staring at the dimly lit reflection gazing back at him from the mirror, Dean slowly began to remember what he was supposed to be doing. Sam's dreams. He was in Sam's dreams. He was a _girl_ in Sam's dreams.

This was so weird, there wasn't even a word for how weird it was.

Who the _hell_ was he?

"Bethany," he muttered, gingerly touching his face – Bethany's face – with trembling fingers. Although the hair was tied back into a long, dark ponytail, and the girl in the mirror was a good couple of inches shorter than the 'nurse' he'd met in Sam's hospital room, their features were undoubtedly identical. _Thank God she's not wearing a skirt,_ was all Dean could think as he examined the girl's jeans, t-shirt and short leather jacket. "Rock chick," he muttered. "I'm just my type…"

Then the lights came on.

"Bethany?"

Dean looked up with a start, almost too fascinated – and horrified – by his reflection to tear his attention away long enough to catch his kid brother silhouetted in the doorway.

Wow, he looked really tall. Even taller than he usually looked. This Bethany chick was _short_, Dean realised quickly.

"Hey," he said, turning and smiling what he hoped was his most disarming smile. At least Sam seemed to know this version of Bethany. So no breaking and entering charges for him – her – tonight at least.

"Bethany, what are you doing here?" Sam asked tiredly, looking at Dean as if he was an escaped mental patient.

For some reason, Dean had the almost irresistible urge to say, "Well I _was _looking for a beer,", but as he only knew a few girls who could get away with a line like that, he settled for, "Took a wrong turn into my worst nightmare. Or maybe your worst nightmare. Not entirely sure about that one."

Oh my God, his voice had risen two octaves. He sounded like he had when he was eight.

Once he'd gotten over that little trauma, it suddenly occurred to him what he'd just been about to say. Oh man, he'd been here before. Not just 'here' – 'here' was obviously Sam and Jessica's apartment. No, 'here' as in at this time. This was the weekend before Sam's Law School interview. The weekend before Jessica died.

"Wow, this is so weird," he said, somehow innately knowing he was supposed to say something else, but completely unable to stick to the script. "No wonder she said I'd know my lines." He then remembered Bethany's other parting shot: "Don't touch anything you shouldn't", and found himself suddenly looking down at himself. In a girl's body. "As if I would," he muttered, hurt. "Perfect gentleman like me…"

Sam was frowning, and Dean realised he was waiting for him to explain himself. Herself. Except he wasn't entirely sure who this version of Bethany was supposed to be in Sam's dream.

But _his_ Bethany had said he'd know the script.

"OK," he said, hoping to Hell this worked. "We gotta talk." Dean found himself looking instinctively at the doorway behind Sam, waiting for Jessica to appear, as she had the last time he'd done this scene.

There she was, right on cue.

"Sam…?"

Sam smiled awkwardly at her, before turning back to Dean. "Bethany, this is my girlfriend, Jessica."

"Bethany…" Jessica echoed. "Your sister Bethany?"

Dean's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. 'Sister'? He and Sam had a sister in this dream?

For once in his life, he was lost for words. He kind of remembered what he'd said to Jessica that night, but realised that hitting on her in his present condition might not be such a great idea. He wouldn't have had the heart to anyway, knowing as he did what was going to happen to her in a couple of days.

"Nice to meet you," was all he managed. Then, "Sam we need to talk. In private."

"No," Sam said, moving over to Jessica's side. "Anything you want to say you can say in front of Jessica."

"OK," Dean found himself saying, again uncertain where the words were coming from. "Dad and Dean haven't been home in a few days." So he was missing too in this dream, was he? That was OK. He just needed to follow the script enough to get Sam alone. It didn't matter if things went a little differently…

"They'll stumble back in eventually. They always do," Sam was saying.

"They're on a hunting trip," Dean added. "And they haven't been home in a few days."

Sam's expression altered. "Jess, excuse us."

_Score!_ Dean thought. This was going to be easier than Bethany – his Bethany – had thought. Get Sam alone, talk some sense into him, wake him up. Done. No problem. If things went as they had in real life, Dean had easily talked Sam into going with him to look for Dad… Well maybe not _that_ easily, but if he could talk him into that, then he could talk him into getting the Hell out of this freaky place he called his consciousness.

He followed Sam out of the house, just as he had last time, marvelling at the fact that Bethany, this fabricated sister who existed only in Sam's dreams, kept a gun and a knife stashed in exactly the same places about her person as Dean did. Maybe Sam thought having a kid sister would be an easier deal than having a big brother, Dean thought to himself. He suspected Sam was wrong on that score: In Dean's experience, having a younger sibling meant only extra responsibility, and while he wouldn't have wished Sam away for the world, sometimes he wondered if his life would have been simpler without him.

Then he thought about Bethany's description of Sam's first dream – where he died with their Mom in the fire – and shuddered. No, Sam was worth the extra complication in his life.

Then another thought struck him: Maybe Sam was wishing _Dean_ away. He'd died in at least one of Sam's dreams, and it wasn't looking too rosy for him in this one either. He thought back to the way Sam had looked at him as he lay on the floor of Roosevelt Asylum, a gun pointed at his head. It was an image that haunted him still, and even though he knew his brother hadn't been himself back then, there had been real hatred in his eyes. And that had to come from somewhere.

Dean began to falter then. Maybe he _should_ just leave Sam be, let him have his fantasy life with Jessica if that was what would make him happy.

Let his kid brother dream himself into a slow, wasting death.

No. Dean couldn't do that.

Like it or not, Sam needed to come back to his real life. Dean needed to wake him, that was all there was to it. For once in his life, Sam was going to follow orders.

"…So Dad and Dean are missing?" Sam was saying, and Dean realised he'd tuned out for a second. "They're always missing and they're always fine…"

Dean opened his mouth to say the words he somehow knew he was supposed to say, but for some reason didn't. He just stood there looking up at his brother mutely. Looking a lot further up than he usually had to.

"Dude, you are freakishly tall," he found himself saying, for a second forgetting who he was supposed to be.

Sam just stared at him as if he was a complete nut job. "Huh?" he said.

Dean stared back at him for a second before deciding what he should do. "Screw it," he muttered, deciding the script could go out the window. "Sam, if I asked if you were coming with me to help find Dad and – and Dean – " no way was he getting his head around referring to himself in the third person, " – what would you say?"

Sam didn't even take a second to consider. "I'd say 'I'm not'," he replied shortly.

Dean nodded. OK, that had been his answer last time too. No biggie. "What if I told you they were in real trouble?"

"How could you know that?" Sam demanded.

Dean shrugged. "Call it ESP," he replied, ironically.

Sam snorted. "You're psychic now?" he asked. "You've been hanging out _way_ too much with Dean…"

"Oh?" Dean tried to keep the wounded look off his – Bethany's – face.

Sam shook his head. "I swore to myself I was done hunting," he said. "And you should be too. If something nasty has got its claws into Dad and Dean, then that's their problem. That's their fault, their decision. I don't see what it's got to do with me."

Dean took a step towards him. "I can't do this alone," he said, figuring the script was probably his best bet right now.

"You shouldn't be doing it at _all_!" Sam countered. "What would your Mom say? Does she even know you're here?"

Dean faltered at that. "She – she – " he stuttered, trying to think of a suitable response. Maybe this younger sibling thing wasn't all it was cracked up to be, either.

"No, huh?" Sam cut him off. "I thought as much." He shook his head. "Beth, unless you want to wind up like Dad and Dean – who I'm sure are both just fine off hunting god-knows-what, by the way – you should go home. Go back to Kansas. Stay with Maggie. She's probably off her head with worry. I _know_ she didn't like it when Dean talked Dad into going back out hunting with him, and I'm sure she'd go out of her mind if she knew you were at it, too!"

Dean didn't answer straight away, his head churning with thoughts he'd have preferred not to be having just then. He was the bad guy in all this. Sam had made him the bad guy. To make it easier for him to stay with Jessica.

Despite his protestations to the contrary, Dean suddenly began to wonder whether Sam really _did_ blame his older brother for his girlfriend's death. Or maybe he just had to demonise him in order to make it easier to push him away, easier to choose Jessica, choose his dream life.

Who was Dean to say Sam had chosen wrongly?

"Sam – " he began, his voice sounding small.

Sam started to turn and head back up the wooden staircase towards his apartment. "Go home, Beth," he repeated. "Forget about hunting. Forget about Dad. Forget about Dean. Your life will be a whole lot better – safer – in the long run."

Dean stared after him for a second, blinking. OK, maybe this wasn't going to be quite so easy this time.

"Sam – ?" he repeated.

"Beth, go home."

"Sam!" Dean shook his head. Time to get tough. He sprinted after his brother, catching up with him on the landing at the top of the stairs. "Sam, wait!"

Sam had stopped, his back still towards him. "Beth – "

"I'm not Bethany!" Dean blurted out, all attempts at subtlety now forgotten.

Sam turned slowly, his expression one of disbelief. And disappointment. "Yeah, OK," he began. When Dean didn't say anything, he added, "Still waiting for the punchline, kiddo!"

Dean shook his head. "No punchline," he said, trying to figure what the Hell to say. He was pretty sure 'Sam, stop dreaming and get your ass back to reality' wouldn't work. "Sam – " he reached out to touch Sam's arm, but his brother pulled away.

Dean swatted angrily at a lock of Bethany's hair that had escaped its ponytail. "Stupid long hair," he muttered. "Why do girls grow so much of this stuff?" He glanced up at Sam, who was still waiting for an explanation. He took a deep breath. "OK, here's the deal, Sammy," he said, almost missing the look of surprise his use of that name elicited on Sam's face. Good. Unintentional. But good. "I'm not Bethany," he repeated. "Sam, Bethany doesn't exist. You don't have a kid sister."

Sam started to laugh. "Yeah, good one," he said, mirthlessly. "You almost got me there."

"No!" Dean grabbed Sam's arm before he could pull away again. "Sam – Sam, I know you think you're standing here, talking to your sister. But you're not. You're lying in a hospital bed in the Middle-of-Nowhere, Iowa, with tubes coming out of you and a machine regulating your breathing."

The smile had rapidly faded on Sam's face. "You're crazy – " he began, trying to pull away.

Despite his reduced size, Dean managed to keep a grip on his brother. "Sam," he said, carefully. "This is all a dream. This whole thing – "

"And who are you? My fairy godmother?"

Dean shook his head, forcing Sam to look him in the eye. "No," he said, taking a breath. "I'm Dean."

Sam just stared at him for a second, his face completely expressionless. Then, "Go home, Beth. This isn't funny." He tried to pull away again, but Dean still managed to hang on to him.

"Sammy, I'm serious," he said. "You're having a dream. Hell, you're having a _lot_ of dreams. You've been asleep for a week and it's starting to take its toll on you! Dad hired some – some witches to put the whammy on you so's you'd dream an answer to his question…"

"What question?"

Dean shrugged. "Whether, if he'd lived his life differently, things could have been better for us."

Sam frowned, but had stopped trying to pull away.

Dean pressed on. "Sam, it's all gone wrong," he explained. "Surprise, surprise, for once in your life you're not doing what Dad wanted you to do."

Again, Sam didn't answer.

Dean tried again. "Bethany," he said. "She's one of the witches. She's trying to help you. She thinks you've gotten lost in your own dreams; can't find your way back out. So she sent me in here to get you."

"You're dreaming too?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded. Maybe he was getting through. "I guess," he said. "Except I'm dreaming _your_ dream."

Sam pursed his lips. "And why am I lost again?"

Dean frowned. This was the tricky bit. "Bethany thinks you're trying to find your own perfect life. Not Dad's. You saw a choice between – " he gulped. "Between Jessica and your 'normal' life and – and me and your – " he couldn't think of a better word. " – Your 'abnormal' life, and you chose Jessica. Except you can only be with Jessica in here, in your dreams. Not in real life."

"Why can't I be with her in real life?" Sam asked, his face completely neutral.

Dean bit his lip. "Sam," he said, trying to think of a way to sugar coat it, but in the end deciding on the direct approach. "Sammy, Jessica _died_. Just like Mom died. You remember that, right? I know you remember…"

Sam's expression didn't change.

"Sam?"

Sam considered him for a second. Then he took a shallow breath, before turning away and heading back towards the apartment. "Go home, Bethany."

"No! Sammy – " Dean went after him, grabbing his arm again and yanking him back to face him. "Sam, listen to me! You can't stay here. I know how much you want to. I know how much you want to be with Jessica. I do. But you _can't_. She's gone. You're not. You need to come back with me." He grabbed at Sam's other arm. "Sam, you can't choose Jessica. It's going to kill you!"

Dean wasn't quite prepared for what happened next: he'd never seen Sam move so fast. All of a sudden, his kid brother had grabbed his shoulders and shoved him against the banister running across the landing, pinning him there so he couldn't move.

"Sam?" Dean looked up into Sam's eyes, almost afraid of what he was going to see there, and their gazes locked.

Roosevelt Asylum.

Dean saw the exact same thing in Sam's eyes at that moment that he'd seen there in Roosevelt Asylum.

Anger. Confusion. Hatred.

"Sam?"

"Go home, Dean."

The next thing Dean knew, Sam had pushed him backwards as hard as he could. He heard wood splinter, and then he was falling, having broken through the rickety banister, falling the two storeys towards the alleyway below.

Sam had pushed him off the staircase.

As he fell, all Dean could see was the hatred in his brother's eyes.

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Dean hit the floor of the alleyway with a hard thud, expecting his body to be in broken pieces, blood oozing from his smashed skull.

But all he felt was the smooth plastic of the hospital chair on which he was sitting, and the soft draught caused by the quietly humming air conditioner.

He opened his eyes gingerly, half expecting to see Sam standing looking down at him from the landing at the top of the staircase.

But all he saw was Bethany.

"I'm guessing that didn't go so well…" she said, feeling Dean's forehead.

"You – you weren't watching?" Dean asked as he tried to get his bearings. Hospital room. Sam asleep on the bed. Bethany standing over him.

He looked down, suddenly remembering. Thank God, he was himself again: Not a girl part in sight.

"Some of it," Bethany replied. She smiled mischievously, despite the dire circumstances. "You made a cute girl – Bethany."

Dean grimaced. "You could have warned me – "

"I _did_ warn you!" Bethany protested. "Short of putting you in there as Jessica, Little Sister Bethany was the best I could do!"

Dean frowned at her. "Remind me never to grow my hair…" he began.

Bethany cut him off suddenly, her hand on his lips. "Wait," she ordered. "Shush. I'm having an idea…"

Dean pushed her hand away. "Less of the 'shushing', _sister_," he said, overly emphasising the last word. "Bad enough you turned me into a girl; I'm damned if I'm going to let you turn me into a poodle!"

"Dean, for once in your life, be quiet," Bethany snapped. "I'm trying to think."

"No way to talk to your big brother," Dean grumbled.

Bethany looked at him then, the thought bubble obviously having burst. "Jessica," she said slowly. "We could put you in as Jessica."

Dean shook his head, all serious now. "No," he said emphatically. "No way."

Bethany frowned at him. "Why not?"

Dean shrugged. "Because," he said, as if that should be explanation enough.

Bethany shrugged back at him, clearly not catching his drift.

Dean looked uncomfortable. "Look," he began. "Quite apart from the whole Freudian nightmare thing? It just wouldn't be right. I can't pretend to be Jessica to talk Sam out of wanting to be with her. It just wouldn't be fair. To either of them."

Bethany obviously hadn't expected Dean to have such a thoughtful objection.

"OK, look," Dean continued. "Sam knows he's dreaming. He knows something's not right."

"How do you know that?"

Dean shrugged again. "'Cause he wouldn't have pushed me off a two storey building if he thought it could actually hurt me."

Bethany considered that. "You sure about that?" she asked tentatively.

Dean shifted awkwardly, the certainty in his voice not quite making it to his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure," he said. Then, "He knew who I was. He knew I wasn't Bethany. And he knew he shouldn't be there with Jessica. When I mentioned her dying, he wasn't surprised. He remembered. He just didn't _want_ to remember."

Bethany sighed, perching herself on the edge of Sam's bed. "I really thought he'd listen to you…" she said, defeat creeping into her voice.

Dean could see the disappointment in her eyes. He just hoped she couldn't see it mirrored in his own. "I've not given up yet," he said, raising his chin defiantly. "If he thinks I'm giving up on him this easy, he doesn't know me as well as he thinks he does…"

Bethany looked slightly more hopeful at this. "Yes," she muttered, more to herself than to Dean. Then, "That may have been why he wouldn't listen to you. Because you weren't yourself, because you weren't the Dean he knows, but the Bethany that he knows doesn't exist, it was easier for him to dismiss you. You're right, I doubt he could have pushed you off a building if you'd actually looked like _you_."

Dean nodded slightly. "Easier to ignore a made up kid sister than a pissed off big brother," he agreed.

Bethany steepled her fingers thoughtfully. "We need the right dream, that's all," she said, again almost speaking only for her own benefit. "If they'd only let me…"

"Guide Sam?" Dean hazarded.

Bethany nodded. "We need to show him what his life is worth," she said. "We need to show him why he needs to live, what he's got to live for."

Dean frowned. "You're gonna have a tough time beating out Jess," he observed. He knew his brother. And he knew how many times he'd heard him calling out her name in the middle of the night.

Bethany was scrutinising him in that odd way again.

"Would you stop looking at me like I'm a lab rat or something?" Dean asked uncomfortably.

Bethany continued to stare at him for a second. Then, "I need to make some calls," she announced, jumping up off the bed and heading for the door.

"Wait – " Dean said, himself standing and making as if to follow her. "Phone calls?" he asked. "Or…?"

Bethany smiled awkwardly. " 'Or'," she replied. "Definitely 'or'." She reached for the door handle, before turning back. "Don't go anywhere," she said. "I'll be right back."

Dean watched her go, for a moment at a loss what he should do next. He turned back to Sam, still sleeping, still breathing, heart still causing the monitor to make little beeping sounds. "You know, this is all your fault," he found himself saying. Then he considered that further, catching his brother's hand in his own. "Actually, this isn't your fault, is it?"

He let go of Sam, digging his hand into his pocket and pulling out his cellphone. He hit the keys exactly as he had a hundred times over the last few months, even less expectant now. After the one phone call he'd gotten, he'd been hopeful for a while…but only for a while.

Hearing the voicemail kick in, he began the usual message. He'd left that a hundred times over, too. "Hey Dad, it's Dean." He sighed before continuing. "You know how this goes by now, right? I don't know if you'll get this, you probably do but don't call anyway… Been there, done that. Well, I just thought you should know that Sam's pretty sick, thanks to your little witchy friends. Maybe they haven't filled you in that your little 'research project' has gone sideways? Dad, you need to make them stop right now. Sam's in trouble and one of their girls can help him, but they won't let her. How about you talk some sense into 'em, huh? OK, that's it."

He closed the cellphone, tapping it on his chin thoughtfully. He knew there were plenty of times he should have been angry with his Dad over the last few months. Up until now, he hadn't been. Well, maybe that time in Lawrence… But right now, he could have quite happily reached down the phone and knocked some sense into the old man. Dreams. What the hell had he been thinking?


	6. Chapter 6

**OK this is the last chapter... Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed! And thanks for not killing me for briefly turning Dean into a girl in the last chapter! **

**This chapter comes somewhere between The Benders and Shadow... for obvious reasons!**

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Sam was standing on a desert road. It stretched for miles and miles in both directions, perfectly straight, disappearing off into the distant horizon like a big black line some giant had drawn with a slide rule.

He was standing in the dead centre of the road, the heat from the tar beneath him radiating up through his sneakers and into his feet. It wasn't an unpleasant sensation. In fact, it was nice to feel the sun on his face, the slight breeze ruffling his hair.

There was no traffic on the road; no trucks destined for big cities with caseloads of fizzy beverages; no roadtripping college kids; no busloads of tired travellers praying for the next rest stop.

All there was was Sam.

He wondered how he'd come to be here.

He had no visible form of transportation; no bags; no provisions. He didn't feel he'd walked very far. In fact, he didn't feel he'd walked at all. He had no coat; no money; no bus ticket burning a hole in his pocket.

There was just Sam and this road.

All very metaphorical if he took the time to think about it.

He knew it wasn't real; just like he'd known Bethany wasn't real; Maggie wasn't real; Jenna and Matthew; Jessica. Every time he looked at Jessica, he knew. But in the end, what did it matter? This was his chance to be with her. This was his chance to reclaim the life he'd had taken from him last November… No, that life had been taken from him on a November night a lot longer ago that that. It had just taken him this long to admit it.

So this was his chance.

He could finally have the life he really wanted, however illusory. What was wrong with that? It was his life. Take it or lose it.

"You know you can't stay here, Sam?"

He felt Jessica's fingers slip into his own as her voice drifted through his consciousness.

He looked down at her. She was wearing the white dress he'd seen her wear before. He smiled. "Says who?" he asked.

"Says me."

Sam turned.

On his other side, walking towards him.

Dean.

He'd tried not to think about Dean too much. It made his head hurt, and his choice that much more difficult. It was easier to choose Jessica when he could blame Dean for losing her in the first place.

Except, he knew that was as much a lie as the one he'd been telling himself since he got here. He knew it wasn't Dean's fault Jessica died. Any more than it was Dad's fault he'd lost his Mom.

He couldn't look at Dean at first, preferring to stare off towards the horizon; examine his feet; look at the road. Anywhere but at Dean.

"You've known all long, haven't you?" Dean was standing right next to him now, as close to him as Jessica.

Sam didn't answer, still looking down at his feet. "Angel on one shoulder, devil on the other…" he muttered.

"Hey, don't you go turning me into no freakin' metaphor!" Dean snapped, glancing over his shoulder, as if he was waiting for someone. "Bad enough I've been a girl today…"

Sam smiled then. "You were pretty hot as a girl."

Dean grimaced. "Don't be thinking about your sister like that, dude," he said, glancing sideways at his brother, hopefully: Sam had almost sounded like his old self just then.

Sam, still not meeting his gaze, looked over Dean's shoulder, off up the empty road as his brother hopped from foot to foot, anxiously. "You waiting for someone?"

For the first time, their eyes met.

Dean shrugged. "Figured I needed some backup," he said. "Had to call in the big guns."

"Yeah?" Sam said. "Hate to rain on your parade, man, but you're on own here."

"With a face like that?" a woman's voice startled both Sam and Dean, who turned to face the woman suddenly standing at Dean's shoulder. "This boy'll never be alone."

"Missouri?"

Sam wasn't sure where she'd come from. One minute she wasn't there… now she was, standing behind Dean, her purse hitched high on her shoulder, smiling that smile of hers: like she knew something no-one else in the world knew.

She put her hand on Dean's shoulder, and he flinched just ever so slightly. She was one of the very few women in the world who could make Dean uneasy. It was that way she had of being inside his head when he least expected it. Kind of like a psychic kindergarten teacher.

"So," Missouri said, taking a deep breath. "Sam, you're in a bit of a spot here, honey."

Sam glanced at Jessica, who smiled at him, detached, almost as if he was all she could see. "I made a choice, that's all."

Missouri nodded. "Yes you did," she agreed. "And I'm not here to tell you that you made the wrong one, sweetheart." She put a gentle hand on his arm, drawing his gaze towards her.

"How do I know you're even real?" Sam asked. "You're just part of my dream, right? Like Dean?"

Missouri inclined her head. "You could say I'm the manifestation of some part of your sub-conscious, I suppose," she said. "Your conscience maybe?" She glanced sideways at Dean. "But Dean? He's as real as you are, honey. Came in here to get you out. But realised he needed help." She smiled. "So maybe he's not as dumb as he looks." Dean frowned at her, used to her jibes by now. She smiled back sweetly. "Cares a lot about you, Sam," she added, causing Dean to fidget again uncomfortably. "Only wants what's best for you."

Sam considered Dean for a second. "Who's to say what's best for me?" he asked.

"Well," Missouri said, her voice remaining even. "Only you can know that for sure."

Sam looked away. Looked at Jessica. "I know she's not real," he said quietly. He looked back at Missouri. "But I'm not sure what _is_ real any more."

Missouri nodded. "Honey, you're lost, that's all," she said, taking his hand and squeezing it. "As surely as if you really _were_ standing out here alone in the middle of this desert. It's time for you to come home now. Your Mom didn't sacrifice herself for her boys so's you could go hide yourself away in some dream world."

"I'm not hiding," Sam protested.

"Could have fooled me," Dean muttered.

Sam cast him an irritated glance. "You're one to talk," he observed.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Sam squared up to his brother defiantly. "Dean, you spend your whole life hiding; from me; from Cassie; from Dad; from the world. You hide behind orders, behind this – this 'job' and you keep everyone at arm's length because you're scared of actually living, of actually letting anyone see who you really are. You're scared if you do, they'll leave you."

Dean was about to make some smart-ass retort, but choked it down before it even reached his mouth. "That's what you think?" was all he said.

Sam nodded. "That's what I think."

Dean laughed, although he didn't find any of this remotely funny. "You know what?" he said. "If I _hadn't_ followed Dad's orders, you'd be dead ten times over. You think you'd have got your picket fence, happy ever after life then?" He shook his head. "I'm not scared of living, Sam," he said. "And I'm not scared of dying. Which are _you_ scared of?"

Sam didn't answer, just turned away from him.

Only to find himself face to face with the man suddenly standing behind Missouri: tall, greying beard, dark sad eyes.

"Sam?"

Dean didn't turn around. He knew whose voice that was.

"Dad?" Sam began carefully. "Is that you? Are you – are you really here? I mean – like Missouri? Or are you – "

"Sam," John seemed to ignore his son's question. "I'm sorry. This has gone on long enough. I never meant this to hurt you. I didn't realise…" he trailed off, eyes drifting to Jessica. Then, "Your Mom died protecting you Sam. She died so that you could live. I can't let you throw that away. That's why I'm here."

Sam's face was a mask of conflicted emotions. He hadn't seen his father in a long time, and, while he knew this wasn't _really_ his father, he'd been looking for him for so long that this almost felt like cheating. He was dreaming this. He knew he was. So if he asked his Dad the question, the one he'd been so desperate to find him in order to ask, how could he trust the truthfulness of the answer? This was, after all, Sam's dream. How did he know his Dad wouldn't just tell him what he wanted to hear?

But then again, he wasn't sure what that was.

"What difference does it make?" Sam asked finally. "Whether I live or die?"

"It makes a hell of a difference!" Dean put in, trying hard to hide what Sam had just said about him within the box in his head where he kept Roosevelt Asylum. Hidden. Maybe Sam was right…

"To who?" Sam returned. "You've all made it clear that I can't have the life _I_ want," he glanced at Jessica. "So why should I go back to a life I didn't choose? Who's going to care if I stay here?"

"I am," Dean replied, truthfully. "And so will Dad."

Their father took a step forward. "It's not a question of how I feel, Sam," he said quietly. "It's a question of what you're _meant_ to do with the life you've been given."

"What, and I don't get any say in the matter?" Just like old times, Sam found himself thinking. Even if this _isn't_ really Dad.

"Sam," Missouri put her hand on his arm. "You should know better than anyone: We don't choose our life; Our life chooses us. Think what would have happened if you _hadn't_ chosen to go with Dean to look for your father – "

"Jessica would still be alive," Sam insisted.

There it was, Dean realised. Somewhere deep down inside, Sam _did_ blame him for Jessica's death.

"You don't know that," John put in. "You and Jessica might _both_ have died."

Sam met his father's gaze. "Would that have been so terrible?"

"Actually, yes," a little voice piped up.

Sam followed the direction of the voice, to where a young woman had appeared from somewhere behind John. She was pretty, dark haired, and was leading a young boy by the hand. He smiled, first at Dean and then at Sam.

"Andrea?" Sam said.

Andrea Barr smiled. "Hey, Sam," she said. "Excuse me for intruding on your dream, but I felt I had something I needed to say."

Sam opened his mouth as if to answer, then closed it again when no words came to mind.

"Go right ahead, honey," Missouri answered for him.

Andrea smiled again. "What I have to say," she said, "for what it's worth, is this. If you had died last year? Me and Lucas would have died too." She indicated the boy whose hand she held. "My son and I? We owe our lives to you and Dean. Now, that may not be of cosmic significance in the grand scheme of things, but it means a lot too me."

"Ditto." A curly-haired girl stepped out from behind Andrea and Lucas, her two brothers in tow. Haley Collins smiled at Sam, before indicating Tommy and Ben. "That thing in the mine would have eaten us all alive, Sam," she said. "If you guys hadn't shown up with no dress sense and a pack of M and Ms to your name."

There were other people appearing behind Haley now: Jenny and her two kids, Sarry and Richie, who lived in the Winchesters' old house in Lawrence. Jenny smiled and waved; Kat and Gavin – the kids Sam and Dean had rescued from Roosevelt Asylum; Matt, the bug kid, and his parents; Sam's friend Zach and his sister Becky; Lori; Charley; Cassie and her Mom; Kathleen Hudak, the cop who had helped them fight the most human of monsters.

And more people kept coming.

Dean looked over at Sam then, trying to gauge the effect of what his brother was seeing by the expression on his face. "You may not have chosen this life, Sam," he said slowly. "But we save a lot of people doing what we do."

Sam blinked hard. "I think a coach load just arrived…" he muttered, as a crowd of people started to emerge on the road up ahead, walking out of the middle distance like some bizarre mirage.

"Plane load, actually," the young stewardess at their head said, smiling broadly at Sam. "United Britannia flight 424." She indicated the mass of people behind her.

"Amanda – "

"Whole plane load of people, Sam," Amanda Walker said. "Who wouldn't be alive today if you'd died in a house fire. Or gone off to be some hotshot lawyer."

Sam's head was starting to hurt. "I didn't ask for this – this responsibility," he said. "All I wanted was an ordinary life!"

Missouri stepped forward, gently touching his face. "Sweetie," she said, her voice sad. "If your family has a curse – " she waved a hand behind her to indicate the mass of people now standing on the desert road. "This is it. You weren't put here to have an ordinary life, Sam. You were put here to have an _extra_ordinary one!"

Sam didn't know how to respond to that. In fact, he didn't know what to say at all. All of these people… If he hadn't chosen the path he had, if he hadn't gone off with Dean to try and find Dad, they probably wouldn't be here…

If he'd stayed with Jessica, yes, he might have saved her. But at the expense of all of these others.

He glanced first at John, who was watching him silently, and then at Dean, who was also watching, but with a completely different expression on his face to the detached concern shown by their father.

It occurred to Sam at that moment that he'd been wrong before. What he'd said about Dean, about him hiding himself from the world. He'd been wrong about that. That may have been the case before their father disappeared, but since Sam had joined him on this crazy roadtrip of theirs, it had been a different story.

Someone else Sam had saved.

In that second, Sam realised he hadn't really known his brother at all until now. But now he understood.

"Sammy?" Dean took a step towards him, his expression almost one of pleading. "You've got to come back. If not for me, if not for them – " he indicated the throng of people crowding behind him, " – then do it for yourself! You're not supposed to be here, Sam. This isn't the life you were supposed to choose either."

Sam met Dean's gaze evenly.

"Sam?" Jessica squeezed his hand, looking up into his eyes. "It's time to choose…"

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Sam blinked hard in the bright light. His eyes hurt and he closed them quickly, instinctively. His head hurt too. Hell, everything hurt. He tried to sit up, but an insistent hand on his shoulder pushed him back down.

"Take it easy, kiddo," a familiar voice said.

Sam's eyes snapped open. "Dean?" he looked up, eyes acclimatising slowly in the harsh electric glare. "Where – ?" He glanced about him uncertainly, unsure whether he was still dreaming. He was in a hospital room. Small. Dingy. The orange floral pattern on the curtains hurt his eyes almost as much as the buzzing fluorescent light above his bed.

No, if he was dreaming, he would have dreamt a nicer room than this one.

Dean was standing over him, his hand still pressed against his shoulder. He looked like Sam felt; like he'd been to hell and back.

"It's OK," a young woman emerged from behind Dean, short blonde hair in a neat little ponytail, blue eyes beaming warmly. She was wearing a nurse's uniform. "You're alright," she reassured him, soothingly. "You're safe now."

Sam smiled at her. "Bethany, right?" he said.

The girl laughed, indicating her name tag. "At least you can still read, Sam!"

Dean cast her a grin. "You've got our – er – little sister here to thank for saving your ass."

"Sorry about that," Bethany said. "Not about saving you. About hijacking one of the characters in your dream."

Sam smiled wistfully, before nodding at Dean. "Who needs a kid sister when you've got him?"

Dean wasn't sure how to take that. "You're not too big for a spanking, son," he said. "I was a _chick_ for you – you owe me big time."

"Yeah," the smile faded from Sam's face and he became suddenly serious. "Yeah, I do."

"Yeah well," Dean said uncomfortably. "I ever get stuck in my own nightmares, you'll do the same for me, right?"

Sam considered for longer than was strictly necessary, grinning lopsidedly. "Maybe," he said. "On the other hand, if I just left you there, at least I'd get the car."

"Over my dead body!"

"Don't even joke…" Sam winced as he tried to sit up. "I've seen your dead body far more times lately than I ever want to again."

"Hey, I told you to take it easy," Dean said, skirting around that subject as he tried to push Sam back down again. Sam resisted this time, however, a modicum of strength starting to return to his aching body.

"How long was I sleeping?" he asked, managing to get himself into a sitting position with a little help from his brother.

"A week," Bethany answered.

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "_A week_?" he echoed. "Oh my god, I've been lying here long enough, I need to – "

"Rest," Bethany said. "Believe it or not, you need to rest. Your body and your mind have been through some pretty traumatic stuff in the last seven days. Give them both a break!"

"Plus," Dean added, slyly glancing over his shoulder at Bethany. "There actually _are_ some hot nurses in this place!"

Bethany pulled a face. "I'm not a nurse," she pointed out.

"Who said I was talking about you?" Dean asked, flashing that grin of his.

"I thought you didn't like witches?"

"Hey, I'm big enough to admit when I'm wrong…"

Sam cleared his throat a little too loudly, distracting Dean from flirting long enough to get his attention.

Acknowledging Sam's interruption, Dean continued in a more serious tone of voice. "Plus, you did save my brother's life."

"For what it's worth," Sam added.

Bethany frowned at him. "It's worth a lot, Sam," she said. "I thought you'd seen that? I thought that's why you decided to come back?"

Sam looked away, eyes drifting to the window where the dawn was desperately trying to make its presence felt in the early morning sky. "Yeah," he said, his voice subdued and uncertain. "Yeah, I did."

Dean put his hand on his brother's shoulder, and Sam tore his gaze away from the window. "Don't ever think your life's not important Sam," he said. "'Cause it is. It's just important in a different way to how you wanted it to be. Besides, if you were off being a lawyer somewhere, who'd keep my ass outta trouble?"

Sam smiled weakly. "That's a full-time job in itself," he said.

Bethany beamed. "And at least you're awake to do it now," she commented.

"Thanks to you," Sam observed.

Bethany grinned. "Hey, what can I say? I'm a sucker for a happy ending. My family just needed a little convincing, that's all."

"They needed as much guidance as Sam, huh?" Dean said.

"It was harder convincing them to let me guide Sam's dream that it was convincing Sam to come back with us," Bethany admitted. "To be honest, I don't know if my argument was that convincing. I get a feeling there was more to their decision than just me."

"Whatever changed their minds," Dean said. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Both of you."

Dean squinted at her. "One question."

Bethany seemed uncertain. "Erm, OK…" she said.

"Who were you?" Dean asked. "In the dream?"

Bethany laughed. "You couldn't tell?"

Dean shrugged, hazarding a guess. "Dad, right?"

Sam nodded his agreement. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

Bethany's smile became more enigmatic. "No," she said. "I was Missouri."

Sam and Dean exchanged a confused glance.

"So…" Dean began.

"Who was Dad?" Sam finished.

"That," Bethany said, smiling again. "Was your father."

_**THE END**_


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